***WARNING... OREO AND KLEENEX ZONE***

The quiet sorrow had stretched into what seemed like an empty eternity, a time defined by the absence of a wife and mother.

Richard, now twelve, was no longer the small, terrified boy who had buried his face in Gordon’s shoulder. He was an athletic, bright child, but with a quiet, observant wisdom that seemed to come from a place far beyond his years. Little Hailey was three, a curious, energetic ball of light who saw no ghosts in the halls of their fully rebuilt home.

The manor had been restored to its former glory brick by brick, just as Bruce had instructed. Yet, despite the perfect facade, it was a hollow museum of a life that was gone. Bruce still moved through it like a ghost, his presence a silent weight. His time was devoted entirely to his children, but his heart remained buried next to Hailey in the family cemetery. He was an empty shell, a father who could not fully give himself to the family he had left.

Alfred found Bruce in the study, just as he had expected. He was a silent figure, a heavy book in his lap, but the pages hadn’t turned in hours. A glass of amber liquid sat untouched at his elbow. The room was dark, the curtains drawn to block out the life outside. Alfred set the brandy on the table and sat in the chair opposite him.

“You have not spoken to Miss Diana or the others,” Alfred said, his voice soft but clear.

Bruce did not look up. “There’s nothing to say.”

“On the contrary, sir. Her and all the others’ hearts are broken, as is mine, to see you like this.” Alfred leaned forward, his voice a firm whisper. “Hailey died so that your children could live. Her last breath was to tell them she loved them. She gave everything so that you and those children could have a future. And you are throwing it all away.”

Bruce finally looked up, his eyes hollow and filled with a crushing despair. “It’s my fault,” he said, the words a weary admission. “All of it. If I hadn’t let my guard down… if I hadn’t tried to have a normal life, she’d still be here.”

“That is a lie, Master Bruce,” Alfred retorted, his tone unwavering. “A lie you tell yourself to avoid the truth. Hailey loved the man you were. She loved you enough to face the impossible with you. Do you honestly believe she would want you to live like this? A ghost haunting his own home? A father who cannot love his children because he is so consumed by grief?”

Bruce was taken aback. Alfred had never spoken to him this way, not even in his most self-destructive moments. He looked at Alfred and saw the weariness of a man who had watched him lose everything twice over.

Alfred’s voice, though full of love, was laced with disappointment. “I loved her too, Master Bruce. Everyone did. You aren’t the only one grieving.” He gestured vaguely toward the windows, where the lights of Gotham began to flicker on. “Master Richard and little Miss Hailey lost their mother. I lost a ‘daughter’. The people at the shelter lost their hope. All of Gotham has lost a truly remarkable soul.”

“She would not want this,” Alfred continued, his voice cracking with emotion. “She would want you to live. I don’t want to bury another Wayne. It’s time to stiffen that upper lip and get back to it. Get back to living.”

Alfred stood, walked to the far end of the study, and returned with a spiral-bound notebook. The cover was bent, the edges frayed. “This was tucked under Master Richard’s pillow,” he said, placing it on Bruce’s lap. “I trust you to do what’s right with what’s inside.”

Bruce hadn’t meant to read it. He’d meant to set it aside, to respect the privacy of a boy who had already lost too much. But something about the way it was hidden—not stored, not forgotten, but guarded—made him pause.

He opened it.

The handwriting was uneven, letters big and clumsy, the way nine-year-olds write when they’re trying to be brave. The date at the top stopped his cold. Three days after Hailey’s funeral.

Bruce read slowly. Each word felt like a hammer on his heart.

***

September 23rd.

Hi Mom,

I miss you.

We buried you a few of days ago. Alfred said the spot was peaceful, next to Grandma and Grandpa. I picked the yellow flowers. Your favorite. Dad didn’t say much. He just held Hailey and looked at the ground like he was trying not to fall in.

I keep thinking about Ajax. About the van. About the man with the green gloves who smelled like smoke and laughed too much. He said Joker wanted me to see. He said it was “a lesson.”

I heard them hit you. I heard you scream. I heard you try to fight back. I heard you fall. I wanted to help. I tried. They hit me too. My ribs still hurt. I still hear the sounds. I still hear your cries.

They took my watch. The one Dad gave me. The one with the little bat. I think about it a lot. I wonder if it’s still at Ozzy’s house. I wonder if it’s broken. I wonder if it misses me.

I wonder if you miss me.

I don’t know how to stop remembering. I don’t know how to sleep. I don’t know how to be okay.

But I remember what you said once. “Even broken wings can mend if you faith enough.”

I’m trying to believe. I’m trying to be brave. I’m trying to be brave for Dad.

Dad is quiet. He’s here for me and Hailey. But he’s different. I don’t know what to do.

I love you. I miss you. I’ll write again soon.

Love,

Richard

***

Entry after entry after entry, for the last three years, Richard talked to his Mom. Each entry was a stake in Bruce’s heart.

Finally understanding his grief wasn’t just his own, Bruce closed the notebook slowly, his hands trembling. The room felt colder now. Smaller. Like the walls were closing in. He had known Richard was hurting. He had seen the nightmares, the quiet stares, the way the boy flinched at sudden sounds. But he hadn’t known this. He hadn’t known the depth of it. The detail. The memory.

Ajax.

Bruce stood, walked to the window, and stared out at the garden where Hailey now rested. He pressed the notebook to his chest, as if it could shield him from the guilt clawing at his ribs. He had failed her. He had failed Richard. He had built a fortress to protect them, and the monsters had walked right in. But Richard was still writing. Still believing. Still trying to be brave.

Bruce wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He turned toward the hallway, up the stairs, toward his son’s room. Tonight, he wouldn’t just tuck Richard in. Tonight, he would sit beside him. Listen. Hold him. And promise—quietly, fiercely—that no one would ever take him again. Not while Bruce Wayne still drew breath.

Richard was awake when Bruce entered the room. He sat up slowly, blinking in the soft light. Bruce crossed the room without a word, sat on the edge of the bed, and placed the notebook beside the pillow.

Richard looked at it. Then at Bruce.

“You read it,” he said quietly.

Bruce nodded.

Richard’s eyes dropped. “I thought you’d be mad.”

Bruce shook his head. “Never.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small velvet pouch. Inside was a watch—sleek, black, simple. A small bat on the face. He fastened it gently to Richard’s wrist.

“It’s not the same,” Bruce said. “But it’s yours.”

Richard turned his wrist over. On the underside, etched in tiny script, were the words: Even broken wings can mend.

His breath caught.

Bruce pulled out another watch—slightly larger, worn leather band, a faint scratch across the face. He fastened it to his own wrist, then looked at Richard.

“I miss her too.”

Richard’s voice cracked. “Dad… how do I make the bad dreams go away?”

Bruce didn’t lie.

“You can’t,” he said softly.

Richard blinked. “You mean… they never stop?”

Bruce shook his head. “No. They don’t. Not completely.”

He looked out the window, the garden quiet beneath the stars. “I still dream about my parents. About the alley. About the gun. I dream about Jason. About Barbara. About Hailey, your Mom. About all the people I couldn’t save.”

Richard’s voice was barely a whisper. “Then what do I do?”

Bruce turned back to him, his voice low and steady. “You wake up. You breathe. You remember who you are. You remember who loved you and now loves you. And you keep going.”

He pulled Richard close, wrapping both arms around him now. “The dreams don’t go away. But they don’t get to win. Not if you keep living. Not if you keep loving.”

Richard buried his face in Bruce’s chest, the tears finally coming.

And Bruce held him.

Not as Batman. Not as a warrior.

But as a father.

***

The following morning, Bruce was in his study, sitting in his armchair. He was a silent figure, the same heavy book on his lap, but this time, he was actually reading. The curtains were still drawn, but a sliver of light had found its way in through a gap in the fabric.

A shadow fell across the study door. Richard came in, his twelve-year-old frame to holding the bundle in his arms. It was the armor Bruce had worn to defend Gotham, meticulously cleaned and mended by Alfred, but still bearing the scars of past encounters.

“Dad?” His voice was soft, but clear in the silent room. He approached his father, holding out the familiar suit. Richard’s hands ran over the battle-worn material. He looked up at Bruce, his gaze a mirror of his mother’s.

“You’re my favorite hero, Remember?” he asked, his voice filled with a quiet, childlike earnestness.

The words, so innocent and full of unshakable faith, hit Bruce with the force of a wrecking ball. It was a plea, not from the city, but from the child he had left behind.

Richard continued, his gaze unwavering. “You once told me Mom became the new Batgirl before Hailey was born.” He spoke with a quiet maturity that belied his age. “You said she had to be the hero she was inside. Don’t you think it’s time for you to be my hero again? To be Hailey’s hero? And Mom’s?”

He gently placed the scarred armor on Bruce’s lap, the weight of it a physical reminder of the life he had abandoned. It was a tangible choice, a burden and a call to action handed to him by the child he had been trying to protect.

Bruce looked from the armor to his son, his mind reeling. The words were not a plea from the city, but from the child he had left behind, the boy who remembered stories of a mother he had barely known and a hero who had vanished.

Alfred, watching from a distance, gave a slow, approving nod. A small smile touched his lips as he thought to himself, And a child shall lead them.

***

The day passed just like every other before it, but the sun seemed to shine a little brighter and the colors a little sharper.

At sunset, Bruce found his way to the family cemetery plot under the silent blanket of the Gotham night. The manicured grass of the rebuilt manor grounds ended where the cold marble of the tombstones began. He knelt before the newest marker, the one next to his parents’, bearing the name:

Hailey Anne Wayne

Wife, Mother, Friend, Hero

He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a single, perfect white rose—a symbol of the pure love he had found and lost. He gently laid it across the top of her headstone. He didn’t speak. There was nothing left to say that hadn’t already been written in his tears and his son’s journal.

Instead, he kissed his fingertips and placed them squarely on the cold stone, a final, silent farewell and a promise. He stayed there for a long moment, the quiet peace of the cemetery settling over him, before finally rising and heading back toward the house.

He went upstairs, changed out of his clothes, and fell into a deep, heavy sleep.

© Copyright 2025 J.R. Geiger. All rights reserved.