It was nearly midnight when the silence shattered.

A cry. Thin and reedy at first, then swelling into a full-throated wail that cut through the fog like a knife.

Alfred Pennyworth set down the silver polish he'd been applying to a tea tray. His old bones creaked as he straightened, tilting his head to listen.

There it was again. Definitely a baby. Definitely from the front entrance.

He moved through the darkened manor with practiced ease, one hand reaching for the umbrella stand beside the door—not for defense, but for balance. His knees weren't what they used to be.

The heavy oak door swung open, and the fog spilled inside like a breath. The crying hit him full force.

On the top step, nestled in a simple cardboard box that once held canned goods, was a child.

He reached in, gentle as a prayer, and lifted her. She weighed almost nothing. The cries hitched, stuttered, then softened into a wet, hiccupping whimper as she found herself pressed against the warmth of his chest.

He cradled her close, one hand cupping the back of her fragile head. She stared up at him with wet, red-rimmed eyes.

Blue eyes.

Like the ocean. Like the dark Gotham skyline. Like—

He shut his eyes.

He was alone.

The baby shuddered in his arms, a tiny tremble that went through her whole body, and let out another thin wail. She was hungry. Cold. Terrified.

Alfred looked down at her, at those impossible blue eyes.