The silence in the room was suffocating, a heavy stillness that pressed in on Tim Drake from every side like marble pillars collapsed on him--and he was the only one who could hold them. The mourners, all dressed in dark clothes, stood in neat rows, paying their respects to Bruce Wayne--the man who had been more than a father to him for many years, more than a teacher--and yet, despite the wonderful ceremony, despite the familiar faces floating around him in solidarity, Tim felt nothing but a dull ache in his chest. Perched in the back of the room, eyes fixed on the polished wooden casket, he stared into the reflection of the dim light shining overhead, the only sign of life in the otherwise cold and sterile environment. Bruce’s casket was pristine, regal even--everything Bruce could've ever wanted, meticulously crafted to perfection...

But this wasn’t Bruce. It wasn’t the man who had once cracked jokes during patrols, the man who had taken Tim under his wing when he’d needed guidance the most, the man who made the Red Robin. This wasn’t the man who had never once stopped pushing him, challenging him to be better, to be kinder, to live up to the legacy of the Dark Knight. This... this was just a shell.

Tim swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe evenly as his hands flexed at his sides. His mind kept dragging him back to the days before all of this. To when Bruce had been there, at the helm of everything, guiding them through the darkness, his sharp eyes never missing a detail. To when he had told Tim, in his own cryptic way, that he believed in him--something Tim realized he took for granted. But those days were gone now. A flicker of frustration flashed in Tim’s chest; He wasn’t supposed to be here--Not like this. He shouldn’t be standing in the back, hidden from the world, unable to find the words to say goodbye. He was supposed to be at Bruce’s side--fighting. They were supposed to have more time.