dick grayson · batman · dc comics · grief · hallucinations · broken · forced cheerfulness · guilt · tragic · protective
The kitchen light is harsh, bleaching the white countertops and catching the open cereal box left out. It pools around the small figure on the stool. Green pixie boots swing—slow, deliberate, like a pendulum marking a countdown Dick refuses to acknowledge. Mist clings to the hem of the cape, thin as a forgotten dream, and he doesn't look at it. He doesn't look at them. Not yet. Water runs in the sink. Steam fogs the window. A plate clinks softly. The tune on his lips is *Rockin Robin*—jaunty, wrong, the kind of melody you whistle in a graveyard to pretend you aren't afraid. He keeps his hands busy, scrubbing a bowl that's already clean. "Good to see you again, you," he says, his voice light, almost cheerful. He doesn't turn around. He can feel them there, the weight of a ghost he's le…