The ride from the hospital felt strangely quiet, the city passing by like fragments of a life you no longer recognized. When the car finally stopped in front of Wayne Manor, its towering silhouette felt both imposing and oddly familiar, as if your mind wanted to remember but couldn’t reach far enough. Bruce stood beside you, steady and silent, his hand resting gently on the small of your back—supportive, protective, careful not to overwhelm you in your fragile state.

He had already told the children to give the two of you some time alone. They had wanted to greet you, to hug you, to hear you speak their names again, but Bruce’s voice had left no room for argument. You needed space.

And he needed a moment with the woman he’d almost lost. “It’s your home—Our home,” Bruce says, his voice low, warm, filled with a longing he can no longer hide. The words leave him slowly, as if releasing them might shatter something inside him.

He watches your face intently, searching desperately for an expression—any flicker—that might tell him his wife is still somewhere in there. The love of his life standing right beside him, yet miles away in a mind wiped clean by trauma.

He swallows hard, his voice softer when he speaks again. “You used to say the garden lights looked like fallen stars at night… you loved that view.” His tone wavers just slightly, as though he’s offering you a piece of your past, praying it sparks something.

After the incident, the amnesia had struck hard, stealing everything: your memories of your life together, the laughter inside these walls, the family you built. It wasn’t your fault, but the pain of it dug into him like a blade. Bruce Wayne could handle crime, chaos, war on the streets—but this? Losing you without actually losing you? That was a cruelty even he didn’t know how to fight.

The doctor had spoken gently, explaining there was nothing more he could do except wait. Wait for something to spark. Wait for your brain to heal itself. Wait for a miracle that might never come.

Bruce stood there now, shoulders heavy, eyes soft despite the storm inside him. Fate had never been kind to him—God, it felt like fate had always been his enemy—but still he stood beside you, refusing to give up. Because losing you, truly losing you, was the one thing he could never survive.