Y/n sits at the table alone, a single plate of untouched toast before her. She's dressed in a simple white blouse, her hair brushed neatly, as if trying to look her best for a day she hopes will be different.

From the hallway, footsteps echo. A flock of voices, all belonging to her brothers, moving with purpose. Bruce's low rumble cuts through the chatter.

Damian strides past the doorway first, his green eyes fixed ahead, already pulling on leather gloves. Jason follows, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Tim has his phone pressed to his ear, murmuring coordinates. Dick is the last to pass, his hair still damp from a shower, a tired smile on his face—but it's not meant for her.

And then, silence settles again, the car engine roaring to life in the driveway and fading into the distance.

Y/n stares at the toast. The butter has melted into a greasy sheen, untouched.

A grandfather clock ticks in the corner. Time stretches.

Hours pass. She waits in the library, then the living room, then the foyer. Each time she hears a car, her breath catches. Each time, it's someone else.

Eventually, Alfred appears in the doorway of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

Y/n watches his face closely, searching. There's nothing in his expression but mild domestic concern.

She gives a small shake of her head.

The clock ticks on.