When the wind swept over the rooftops of the manor, it carried an eerie sense of fear for those sharp Gothic peaks, and when it blew into Wayne Manor through the cozy windows, it didn't beco warm.
"Now, you go to sleep, sleep, understand? Don't stand here, don't look at that way, lie down on the bed, and sleep, is it that hard?" Bruce said, his hands on the shoulders of a frail little girl.
This little girl was one of the children he had taken to the hospital earlier, all the others were already lying in beds receiving treatnt, but only she was difficult, no matter what Batman did to persuade her, she only cried and scread, and either ran away or bit people.
The little girl kept looking up at him, her big eyes filled with fear, but she remained still. If Bruce tried to hold her, she ran away. If he cornered her, she bit people. She didn't speak; she couldn't communicate. She was like a mad wild cat.
Bruce squatted on the spot, covered his eyes with his hands, and said, "Then can you tell what you actually want to do?"
The little girl turned her head towards the window. Bruce closed his eyes heavily and said, "It's raining outside, and you have a high fever. If you go out, you'll die. Why can't you understand that?"
Bruce felt that he had explained it very clearly. Even Aisha could completely understand what he was saying, but this little girl seed to be completely oblivious.
Bruce even had the illusion that she was deliberately defying him. But when he cald down, he felt this was impossible. He hadn't mistreated her, so why would she behave in this way?
"Dick, Dick! You co and watch her, I'm going to get so books." Bruce called Dick over to watch the little girl while he went to his study to bring a book related to children's psychology.
It was his textbook, which he had not paid much attention to before, but now he needed to really delve into it.
After reading for a while, Bruce realized that the little girl was likely suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, a common disease in abused children. The recomnded treatnt was helping them to establish a sense of safety, especially creating a secure environnt for them.
Bruce looked up at Wayne Manor, and felt that there was no safer place in the world.
The lavish hall has a warm-colored floor, all the furniture was made of solid wood, the fire in the fireplace was burning vigorously, bringing a cozy warmth, and the windows and doors were thoroughly sealed, not a sliver of cold wind could blow in.
If this wasn't safe enough, then were the dark, narrow alleys safer?
Bruce felt that he had done more comforting than the book recomnded, he had been constantly asking, caring, and taking care of the girl, but it was all futile, she not only didn't respond, but refused to get injections or take dicine, refused to eat or drink, and was even aggressive.
By the middle of the night, Bruce felt extrely tired. Luckily, the little girl was also worn out, her stamina couldn't last for that long, so she just passed out. Good thing Alfred checked on her, fed her so dicine, and her fever gradually subsided. Now all she needed was rest.
Bruce leaned on the sofa and wiped his face. He felt drowsiness coming on, and just then, he heard the patter of footsteps. Dick, already in his pajamas, ca down the staircase holding a pillow.
In the pitch-dark hall, only the glow of the fireplace was visible, the outlines of the furniture were distinctly visible. Bruce had a strange feeling, as if the scene he was familiar with for many years was alien to him.
"What's up, Dick?" Bruce asked, perking up.
"I just... I just wondered... What's wrong with the little girl?"
"... She's sick." Bruce responded, "This might make her a little irritable, but she'll be fine soon, don't worry, go back to sleep."
Dick sighed, moved over to Bruce, and sat down next to him. His body was so close that Bruce could feel his body heat. Dick turned his head and looked at Bruce, "There's sothing I want to talk to you about."
"Go ahead," Bruce said without looking at him.
The glow of the fireplace shone on both of them. Their shadows, one large and one small, were cast upon the sofa. Whenever they sat side by side, there was a warm feeling that felt like a father-son dialog, which seed to be deeply engraved in human genes.
"I feel ... that little girl may not actually want to stay here." Dick hesitated and added, "She might not like us very much."
Dick rubbed the pillow in his hands and said, "Or rather, she's in pain. Being here is causing her pain. We shouldn't put her through that, right?"
"Why would she be in pain here?" Bruce retorted, "We have dication and food, a secure room, a soft bed. How could any of this make her suffer?"
"If she's suffering here, do you expect to send her back to where she used to stay? That broken shack that uses an iron sheet as a roof sandwiched between two alleyways?"
"I don't know," Dick tilted his body to one side and said, "I just feel that if she's uncomfortable, we should try to find out why and make her feel at ease as much as possible."
"That's exactly what I'm trying to do," Bruce raised his voice, "She's already taken the dicine and is asleep. It's a sign of progress."
"But she passed out from exhaustion..." Dick said in a small voice, "I saw her... even when she was asleep, she was frowning."
Suddenly, there was a bang. Dick was startled. He saw Bruce banging the table with his hand. He imdiately stood up, moved a ter away from the coffee table, and then looked at Bruce.
Suddenly, Bruce lowered his head, took a deep breath, and said, "Go to bed, Dick... go on."
Dick retreated two steps back, moving away from the range of the light. Only then did he turn around and run upstairs. Bruce, alone, leaned on the sofa, listening to the rain outside, then fell asleep.
The following morning, Dick's figure was absent from the breakfast table. Alfred explained, "Young Master Dick left quite early. He's gone to school."
Bruce nodded in silence. However, Dick didn't return even by nightti, causing Bruce to ask Alfred, "Isn't Dick supposed to be back on Mondays and Tuesdays? Why isn't he back yet?"
"Young Master Dick sent a letter back through the newspaper boy. The gist of it is that he's swamped with schoolwork and has to stay there for a few days."
Bruce took the letter from Alfred's hand, scanning the handwriting. He could barely recognize so of it. He rembered seeing Dick's assignnt book, noting how childish the handwriting was.
But now, the English in this letter showed aspects of handwriting style. It looked like a letter written by an adult. Bruce realized he had never paid any attention to these changes.
When it started raining in Gotham again, he sat alone on the sofa. The only sound keeping him company in the dark and gloomy manor was the sound of the heavy clock.
Before he fell asleep, he clenched his fist, as if making a decision, but as he succumbed to sleep, he relaxed his arm. His fingertips trembled in ti with his breathing, as if playing chords with the glow of the fire.
In this cold night of Gotham in 1990, all one could see was the transient lightning in the distance and the hidden shadows of the clouds under the light, lost in the rain.
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