Despite the glaring sun, it was a dark day for Gotham and it would become darker as the time passed. His death was a week ago. Even now they couldn’t believe it. He was so cautious, so tenacious how could he have died? The family stood grim and solemn as the coffin lowered into the ground.
Damian had his fists clenched firm at his sides. Why the hell was it such a clear day? That coffin shouldn’t be going into the ground. His shoulders shook with fury; his nails dug into his palms.
Dick placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder in an attempt to consol him, but nothing could keep him from his grief. Dick had not expected this to happen, none of them had. He felt responsible for his death. He should’ve been there. He should’ve known… but now it was too late for these words. He was gone.
Tim stood silent as the dirt piled onto the coffin. There must be a logical explanation for this. There was no way he could’ve died that easily.
But none grieved as greatly as their butler Alfred. He was the one that found him. The one to carry his bullet littered body home. They couldn’t take him to the morgue. They couldn’t even report him dead. They had no believable story to tell to the press. The only thing they could do was to give him this small funeral and bury him at the manor. His grave was next to another unnamed grave, marked only by a bat statue. The grave of his father.
Here lied the graves of Bruce Wayne and his son Terrence Wayne.
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