WAYNE MANOR HAD now felt hollow. The vastness of its rooms echoing with a heavy and suffocating silence. Rooms emmited from solitary lamps.
In the center of the master bedroom, Alfred laid peacefully on a grand four-poster bed, though its size only emphasized how small and frail he had become.
His body was now gaunt, his skin pale and thin, stretched tight over his bones. An oxygen tube snaked from his nose to a nearby tank with the soft hiss of air.
Bruce sat beside him, his large, calloused hand gently holding Alfred's frail one.
The man who had faced monsters, who had stared into the abyss without flinching, now looked utterly lost.
His eyes, usually so sharp, were clouded with grief. His face was drawn. The lines of worry etched deep into his skin, making him look older than his years.
The silence between them was deafening. Broken only by the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor beside the bed.
Alfred opened his eyes, the movement slow and labored. He looked at Bruce, his lips curling into a weak, but genuine smile.
"Master Wayne." Alfred rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper, "You look like you've seen better days."
Bruce tried to return the smile, but it faltered, replaced by a deep, aching sadness. He swallowed hard, fighting to keep his emotions in check.
"Y-You shouldn't be worrying about me, Alfred. . .I should be the one taking care of you."
"Well. . .you've always been a stubborn one, haven't you?" Alfred's smile softened, a touch of mischief in his eyes despite the pain, "But I'm afraid this is one fight. . .even you can't win, son."
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
