CLARITY:
SYMPHONY
…the orchestra found its voice again, joining slowly…
The circumstances of his death were irrelevant. Or, at least, what the public knew of his death was irrelevant, because the public didn't know him. Not really, not in any way that mattered. Bruce Wayne was merely a mask for the true man.
But what did matter-what mattered more than anything-was that he was dead. Gone, forever.
He would have probably been surprised if he'd known how many people missed him. Clark, of course; the boy scout was all but immortal. Barbara. Tim. Alfred had died years before, but Lucius Fox was still . The now-retired Jim Gordon.
Dick Grayson.
They'd had a falling out years ago, and parted ways. It was an irony, of sorts, that Bruce Wayne had created such a strong man, and in the process, made a man who hated him. It was hard to say what exactly they had argued about, but it came down to a fundamental difference of personality. For the first few years Dick had been hotly angry, but eventually he calmed down a bit and realized that no matter how much he disagreed with him, or how angry he got, Bruce Wayne was the closest thing to a father he had left, and that mattered. They never apologized or even brought it up again, but things thawed between them, and Dick started showing up at the Manor for Christmas. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than anything Bruce had hoped for.
And now he was dead.
Dick had power of attorney, and it was on his word that the safe in the top office of Wayne Tower was opened.
Inside was a thick folder, full of financial documents. There was a long, narrow black velvet box, and a smaller pair of ring boxes on top of that. A thinner folder at the bottom of the small safe contained the will, and beside that, a glinting silver disk.
The finances Dick didn't care about. He'd been living self-sufficiently for years now, and what Bruce did with his company was of no consequence to him.
He gently placed the rest of the contents of the safe on the massive mahogany desk from which his adopted father had guided Gotham. He didn't sit in the heavy black leather chair which still bore the contours of the dead man's frame, but stood beside it instead. Carefully, he lifted the ring boxes. Inside were an antique pair of matched gold wedding rings, a thick simple band, big enough for a hand as big as Bruce's own, and delicate filigreed one that could only have belonged to Martha Wayne. Engraved on Thomas Wayne's ring was the world "Always;" Martha's said "Forever."
He returned them to their boxes and laid them side by side on the polished wood.
The long velvet box contained a string of pearls. It was a short strand, some of the beads obviously lost, and those that remained were spattered with brownish stains and grime. Dick didn't touch them; he closed the box after a long moment and wondered how many endless moments Bruce had sat and stared at the bloody pearls his parents had been shot for.
He slid the disk into the player on the desk, hoping to distract himself. Slow classical music began, not something he recognized but familiar, as if he knew who it was about. It was heartbreakingly sad. Dick wondered what it was and why it was in the safe, but it had been unlabeled. Perhaps there was something in with the papers.
Feeling even worse than he had when he started, he picked up the thin folder. Dick flipped over the brown cover and slipped out the first handwritten sheet.
Tim, It read, By the time you read this letter, I am probably dead or missing. If that is the case, then I would like to take this opportunity to tell you
Am I so much a coward that I would leave a letter to say what I was never brave enough to say to your face? There are many things between us that have long gone unsaid. I would like to believe that there is no need to say them; that both of us simply understand.
But perhaps I should not take that risk. Perhaps it is time to admit that I am the worst sort of coward and liar; to afraid to confess what I know to be true, and lying to myself about it. So I suppose I must take this chance to say what I could not say to your face. Because I could not say it to you, and it must be said.
Tim.
I know that I am not what you were meant to have, and that I am not what you asked for. You were born for a happy life. You should have been allowed to grow up with your parents. But we both know that sometimes things don't go like they should. I am sorry that I was so selfish to take you for myself; I could have found you a normal family to take you in and love you. To raise you to be a normal man. But I couldn't give you up. So I took you and made you into something I know you would never have chosen for yourself. And I am so ashamed of myself for that, and so proud of you, for overcoming the worst of my best intentions.
I want you to know that. I am proud of you-all of you, Barbara and Jason and Tim and Cassie-and I know you will make the right choices, even when I don't agree with you. I love you all as my own children, even if you think I don't. I always have. I always will. I don't believe there's anything in the universe that can change that.
But I am strong in all the wrong ways. I cannot say this to your face, so I will take the coward's way out and write it in a letter where you cannot ignore it. Where you cannot reply to me. I am sorry for this as well.
I would tell you all to be safe and happy and to look out for each other, but I like to think that that, at least, does not need to be said. I would tell you to be strong and courageous and to never let anyone push you down, but I know that needs no words. You are all such better children than I ever hoped for-such better children than I ever deserved.
So I will say this:
I loved you, I love you, I will always love you. I am proud of you. I believe in you.
Bruce.
The music slowly faded away, the office ringingly silent.
Tim slid down into the shadow of the chair, buried his face in his hands, and wept.
