Days had passed lethargically, painfully. Each day felt like a week, each week like a day.

Adriana smoothed her black dress as it whipped about her shins in the midmorning breeze. The white flower in her hair kept its place, held up neatly with a bobby pin. The young woman's shoes clicked with a timely rhythm on the sidewalk. She took the same path every day, holding a large bouquet of white roses. People didn't bother giving her a second glance. After the first few days, many spoke of her reverently. Hushed whispers commenced as she breezed by the people of Gotham.

"Poor dear. She's the wife of that man who was shot last week."

"The policeman?"

"She looks pale."

"Doesn't she eat anymore?"

She ignored their woes and worries and continued, pressing on with a determined if not grieving look in her eyes. Ever so often, she was reminded of her wedding day…walking down the lonely road ahead, a bouquet in her hands filled with white flowers, the steady gait, waltzing, floating towards the end of the road where there waited someone she loved…someone she adored.

Even with these dismal thoughts, Adriana hadn't been able to shed any more tears. She had cried enough the day Carlos was taken. She saw crying as a waste…but she wanted to do it so badly. She just couldn't anymore.

Adriana engulfed herself in her depressive state. The large loft she lived in was no longer the vibrant, colorful home it used to be; it was redecorated with dark colors, black and gray furniture, dark curtains and fabrics on the wall. The things she truly loved in the house were her white lilies dotting the room with a ghostly luminescence. She kept to herself, shutting out the outside world. The only link she had was the occasional phone call to her sister, along with television and newspapers. Other than that, she rarely appeared in public except on her daily walk to the cemetery.

Adriana had grown thinner, paler, a mere shadow of the strong-willed woman she used to be. She couldn't sleep, she couldn't eat; she closed her bedroom door every night and sat in the darkness, letting it wash over her like a cool wave. Shadows were the only company she ever had anymore.

Adriana paused at the gate of the cemetery, various headstones dotting the hillsides like stony gray flowers. She looked around, watching to see if someone were following her, before drawing open the ornate black-iron gate and disappearing into the morbid fields of the dead.

"Large coffee, please. Decaf." A lanky young man murmured, rummaging through his pockets for his wallet. His frameless glasses slid down the bridge of his nose as he looked down, much to his annoyance.

"That'll be $4.50, please."

The man slipped some dollar bills and two quarters onto the counter. "Here." He looked around casually at the cozy little café. It was quaint, not something he particularly enjoyed, but it was the last place he could stay without suspicion.

"And, like, what's your name?"

The man looked up at the smiling blonde behind the counter. "Excuse me?"

The teen beauty giggled and held up the cup. "Um, I, like, need your name."

The man grinned faintly, casting an eerily handsome look over his face. "I haven't seen you around here before…and I've been coming here for a few weeks." The girl smiled, biting her lower lip.

"I'm, like, new. Uh…so…like, your name?" She squeaked.

The man leaned on his elbows, his smile flickering. "Jonathan," he purred, causing the girl to blush.

After holding down his lunch, Jonathan Crane took a seat by the window and wrenched open the local paper. He didn't want to look at the girl behind the counter, nor did he want any attention from her.

'Pathetic, bubbling, air-headed Barbie wannabe. I'm surprised she even has the brains to make a latte and breathe at the same time.' Jonathan paused, chuckling to himself. 'Interesting subject…I could test the effects of the gas on her…puh, she's probably too dense for anything to work. It would never yield any promising results. Maybe shock therapy—'

Jonathan hissed, tearing from his thoughts as a sudden pain seared across his face. He reached up and touched the faint scar on his cheek. It was getting better, but the pain still flared up every so often. His fingers traced the jagged mark nearly all the way to his ear. He gave a growl and returned his attention to the paper, but his mind was once again wandering. 'Dawes didn't have to taser my face. I mean…the least she could have done was shoot the horse, not me.' Crane's memories of the night he was scarred were vivid. After a while of riding that beast around with practically no feeling in his face, Jonathan was able to hide out until things cooled down. He was proclaimed dead after the grand escape from Arkham, since the authorities weren't willing to spend the money to hunt down a quack…they needed that money for fancy balls and parties. Gotham was notorious for being so cheap and so lavish all at the same time. Crane wished the experiments on the people of the city would have been fulfilled…he would have loved to see the outcome.

Doctor Crane had become a staple guest at the café, thrilled that no one ever recognized him. Not that anyone would. No one ever paid attention to this scrawny man before, but he was used to it. The Scarecrow, as he lovingly called the other side of his already corrupt mind, wasn't the sweetest side to show a woman, but he got his point across. Crane was a twisted individual, his mind always racing with wild ideas and sickening hypotheses to his cruel and unusual experiments.

"Jonathan?"

Crane looked up at the sound of his name and sauntered up to the girl at the counter. He looked at her nametag, reached for his coffee, and gave a quick nod. "Thank you very much, Darcee."

He went back to his seat as the girl went into a coma behind him. Crane pulled the lid off the cardboard cup and blew away the steam rising and swirling over the coffee.

"Is that her? Again?"

"Third time I saw her this week. Always wears that black dress."

"And the flower. Always has a flower."

Crane looked over his glasses, pushing them up on his nose, and listened to the conversation between two elderly women going on at the table in front of him. Their voices were low, but he could immediately tell who they were talking about. He spotted an attractive girl across the street, striding down the sidewalk, cradling herself in her arms. She kept her head low, never once looked up.

Jonathan's eyebrows knitted together in thought. He recalled watching the girl walk back and forth, now that he thought about it. He never knew where to, but she always passed at the same time. Although, now that he thought about it, she must have stayed back longer before passing the café on her way home. He looked up at the clock. 10:33... Yes, she must have stayed well over an hour longer.

Crane's head swarmed with possibilities. Perhaps she was visiting a friend, perhaps a lover, perhaps she was in a flower delivery service. Jonathan didn't quite care. He blew over his coffee once more and read over the newspaper in his hand with disdain. "Looks like the Bat-Man got a little article in the paper. Stopping another robbery, saving a little old lady, bla-bla-bla…"

"It's a pity about her husband. She was only married a few months."

"No, she was married more than that. A year or something wasn't it? My daughter, she used to work with her. Says she got married last year."

"Still, I'm amazed she does this every day. When my Harold died, I had no chances to visit him. I had to go whenever I could. She goes there every day, day in and day out."

"You think she's sick?"

"...Well I don't want to judge."

Jonathan squinted. He was no longer reading the paper. He was intently listening to the conversation. His cold blue eyes drifted towards the window where the receding black figure disappeared from view, her long brown hair fluttering around her shoulders. He raised an eyebrow, his curiosity peaked.

'Dead husband…daily, dedicated march…intriguing. They may not want to judge the young lady…but I believe I have a sudden opening in my schedule…'