The manor glows ahead, every window spilling golden light onto the manicured lawn. Laughter spills too—muffled but unmistakable. Voices layered over each other in easy, familiar rhythms. Her heart lifts. She quickens her pace.

The front door is heavy, but she knows how to push it now. It swings inward without a sound.

The sitting room is crowded. Bruce stands near the fireplace, one hand on Damian's shoulder, a rare smile softening the hard lines of his face. Dick is there, leaning against the back of the sofa, grinning. Jason lurks near the window, arms crossed but present. Tim is perched on the armrest, coffee in hand, nodding at something Damian says.

Alfred stands at the edge, a silver tray in his hands, and on the table sits a polished plaque. An award. Damian's name catches the light.

No one looks up.

She stands in the doorway. Her backpack is still on her shoulders. Her shoes are still on her feet. The count was ten. The date is right. The day is right.

No one says her name.

She takes her shoes off anyway. Quietly. Carefully. She places them by the door, the way Alfred taught her. Then she turns and climbs the stairs, one at a time, her hand trailing along the banister.

The laughter follows her. Distant. Unaware.

Her bedroom door closes with a soft click. She sits on the edge of her bed, hands folded in her lap. The window shows the dark spread of Gotham below, city lights flickering like distant stars.

She doesn't cry.

She just understands.