Tim Drake (or was it Wayne?) had landed in Gotham International at a quarter past midnight on the second Sunday of June. He hadn’t been in the city in over six months. He had no reason to come back. No more family to embrace him in their arms. No older brother to ruffle his hair, no girlfriend to hold his hand tight when it hurt too much to breathe, and no father. No father to play baseball with, no father to show him all that life had to offer, and no father to tell him that everything will be alright.
Tim wasn’t sure whose grave to visit first; the grave of Jack Drake or the unmarked grave behind Wayne manor. He had decided to visit his adopted father’s grave tonight, before the sun went down, and in the morning, he’d see his biological father.
“Bruce,” Tim kneeled in front of the gravestone. There were no words inscribed on it; no dates, no name, and no message. “I miss you.” He finally said those three words. He thought those words every day for the past six months but he never once uttered them. “I know you’re alive somewhere. I know it.” He wasn’t sure if he was reassuring Bruce or himself. “I will find you. I’ll bring you back home.” His forehead cringed and tears began to pool in his eyes, “We’ll both go back home.” He wiped the tears with his sleeve, and took a deep breath taking in the smell of wet soil. Tim touched the grey granite in front of him and where it should have a message, about five inches from the ground—just like his other father’s—Tim traced with his finger, ‘Beloved Father.’
“Happy father’s day, Bruce.” He hugged the tombstone and held it tight in his arms.