When Gotham's night rain fell once more, Bruce, who had already circled the city from above, returned to Wayne Manor. His soaked hair clung to his temples, and his face looked somewhat pale.
When Alfred came over and handed him a towel, he cautiously asked, "Master, are you all right?"
Alfred did not often take the initiative to express concern for Bruce. He preferred to show it through actions, but Bruce truly looked terrible now.
He had let himself get caught in the rain, soaking his hair and clothes. His gaze was somewhat unfocused, making him look like an addict savoring the effects of drugs in some alleyway.
Hearing Alfred's question, Bruce seemed to have suddenly found a lifeline. His eyes instantly focused on Alfred's face, and he looked at him seriously as he asked, "Alfred, do ghosts really exist in this world?"
Alfred draped the towel over Bruce's head, led him to the sofa by the arm, and began drying his hair. As he did, he said, "That depends on how you define a ghost."
"I have always believed that death is not the end for human beings. As long as someone lives on in another person's memories, they have not truly died. To those closest to them, even after someone has gone, traces of their life remain everywhere. That longing is like a ghost wandering through the room."
Bruce leaned stiffly against the back of the sofa and muttered, "No, I don't mean that kind of philosophical explanation. I... Forget it. Alfred, please get me a thermometer. I may have a fever."
Alfred touched Bruce's forehead with his fingertips, then shook his head. "No, Master, you don't have a fever. Your temperature is perfectly normal. If you feel unwell, I can pour you a cup of hot milk."