The next morning, Bruce stood before the twin headstones of his parents, the polished marble gleaming dully under the Gotham sky.

The air was still, save for the rustle of leaves in the surrounding trees, a quiet counterpoint to the turmoil within him. He spoke to them, his voice low, almost a whisper, as if sharing the most intimate of secrets.

“Mom… Dad,” he began, his gaze fixed on their names etched in stone. “I met a boy yesterday. Richard. Richie. He’s… he’s just like I was. Only he’s five years old. Lost his parents too—but from a car accident.” A familiar ache twisted in his chest, raw and fresh despite the decades.

“He clung to me, Mom. Like I wanted to cling to you. And I… I took him to the cave. Showed him everything. Gave him a watch, so he can call me if he ever needs me.” He ran a hand over the cold stone.

“Am I doing the right thing? Taking him in? I’m Batman, you know. And Bruce Wayne, the… the one in the papers. I’m not a father. I don’t know how to be a father. What if I fail him? What if I break him?” His voice cracked slightly.

“I wish you were here. I wish I could ask you. You’d know what to do. You always did.” His questions and worries poured out, a torrent of doubt and yearning for the guidance he’d lost so long ago.

Meanwhile, in the quiet solitude of the manor, Alfred was in the study, meticulously organizing some ancient texts. Hailey entered, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow.

“Alfred,” she said, her voice soft, “is Bruce still out at the graves?”

Alfred paused, looking up from his task.

“He is, Ms. Hailey. I daresay he will be for some time. He’s doing what he always does when something weighs heavily upon him. He talks to his parents.”

Hailey nodded, her gaze distant. “It’s about Richie, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Alfred confirmed, his voice gentle. “Master Richard has touched a very deep chord within him. A wound that never truly healed, now re-opened with the boy’s own tragedy.”

He sighed, a faint, almost inaudible sound.

“Master Bruce is wrestling with the enormity of what he feels called to do. He fears the unknown, the responsibility, the possibility of… well, of not being enough. But he has always been enough, Ms. Hailey. More than enough. He simply needs to find the father within the protector.”

Hailey looked back out the window, her gaze settling on Bruce’s solitary figure by the graves of his parents.

A quiet determination set in. She got her jacket, walked outside, and approached him silently, her steps barely disturbing the serene quiet of the morning.

Alfred watched them from the study window and gave a nod of approval.

She reached him, the coldness of the marble contrasting with the warmth of her hand as she gently took his.

“Bruce? Are you okay?” she asked, her voice soft, filled with genuine concern.

Bruce turned to her, his eyes troubled, a deep furrow in his brow.

“Okay? No, I’m not okay,” he echoed, his voice raw. “Hailey, I just spent an hour talking to ghosts, telling them I’m about to do something I have no idea how to do. I’m about to bring a child, a grieving boy, into this life. My life. And I don’t know if I’m capable of being what he needs. What if I just… break him further? What if I’m not enough?” He squeezed her hand, his worry palpable. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Hailey gently squeezed his hand back, her gaze unwavering, her voice soft but firm with conviction.

“Bruce, if you—the Batman—could see past everything you and the world knew about me, give me a new life, a new purpose, and a chance at redemption as Dr. Hailey Smith…then taking in young Richie?” She smiled gently. “Piece of cake. You’ve got this. Your heart is in the right place. It has an enormous capacity for love. Look at all you’ve done for Gotham, not just as Batman, but as Bruce Wayne, the billionaire philanthropist. All of that comes from love, from a desire to protect and heal. That’s all he needs.”

“Thank you, Hailey,” Bruce said, his voice quiet but profound, a sincerity that reached deep into his guarded core. “Thank you for your faith.”

Without another word, they turned and walked back towards the sprawling manor, their hands still gently clasped, a silent testament to the fragile, hopeful bond forming between them.

© Copyright 2026 J.R. Geiger. All rights reserved.