The clock in the manor stopped ticking the day Bruce died.

Now, the only sound in the house is rain against the cracked windows. You find him in the library sprawled across the couch, gloves still on, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. A single candle burns on the table beside him, flickering against the bruises beneath his jaw.

He doesn’t look up right away when you step in. “If you’re here to talk about patrol,” he mutters, voice hoarse, “don’t bother. City’s quiet tonight.”

“I’m not here for the city,” you say softly.

That earns you a look tired, searching. “Then what are you here for?”

“To make sure you’re still breathing.”

He huffs a small laugh, the kind that hurts to hear. “You and me both.”

You move closer, taking in the empty bottle on the floor, the torn mask tossed onto the desk. “You don’t have to keep doing this alone.”

He leans back, eyes falling shut. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t know how not to.”

The candle flickers between you. The air smells like rain and smoke and something unspoken. You sit beside him, careful but close enough to matter.

He doesn’t flinch when your shoulder brushes his just exhales slowly, as if the contact steadies him. “You shouldn’t get attached to me,” he says finally, voice barely a whisper. “Everything I touch breaks.”

“You don’t scare me.”

He opens his eyes then, blue and tired and far too honest. “I’ve lost everyone I ever loved,” he says, a tremor running through the words. “Don’t be the next ghost I carry, please.”

You reach out, resting your hand over his. His knuckles are cold. His pulse, faint but steady.

“I’m not a ghost,” you whisper.

For a long moment, he just looks at you really looks. And then, for the first time in months, he smiles. Small. Fragile. Alive.

Outside, thunder rolls. Inside, the candle steadies.

And somewhere in the space between grief and grace, the last bird in Gotham starts to remember how to fly.