The lively sounds of the banquet, carried through the garden bushes, had become somewhat muffled by the time they reached us.
Thor and Bruce walked slowly along the paths of the manor, neither of them speaking.
After a long while, Bruce spoke first.
So, you're leaving?
With one hand in his suit trouser pocket and the other casually swinging, Thor kicked away a small pebble blocking his path upon hearing this.
"You know, it's pretty much the same in every world. Without Batman, those superheroes always end up scrambling to handle big events."
He looked at Bruce, "The universe I'm in now is pretty much the same. Although I've taken down most of the notorious villains, there are always a few stubborn ones who like to show up."
"Unless I become a dictator and take charge of everything. But that's too much work," Thor said, pursing his lips. "After all, managing a world and taking down a villain are completely different things."
Bruce listened in silence, lost in thought.
He knew perfectly well that Thor was telling the truth.
The cost of maintaining order is always far higher than the cost of creating chaos.
"So, you find it too much trouble?" Bruce asked.
"Of course," Thor nodded confidently. "Normally, problems that can be solved with bullets aren't a big deal. But if you were managing the world, things like cleanup, historical issues in different regions, racial conflicts... do you know how troublesome that is?"
Bruce didn't respond.
He knew, of course, that he had spent his entire life dealing with these "troublesome matters."
Seeing that he was silent again, Thor took a few steps forward, then stopped and turned around.
"Alright, that's enough to stop here."
He looked at Bruce, a rare serious expression on his face.
"If I have the chance, I will come back. I hope that when I do, I will see a lovely grandson or granddaughter."
As soon as he finished speaking, Thor's figure began to become transparent, like a reflection in water being disturbed, turning into countless tiny specks of light that drifted upwards.
The light flickered briefly in the night before disappearing completely.
It was as if he had never existed.
Bruce stood there, staring in the direction Thor had disappeared, motionless for a long time.
"Young master, has the master left?"
Alfred's voice came from behind.
He came out at some point, with a clean white towel draped over his hand.
Bruce nodded, his gaze still fixed on the object.
"They're gone."
He turned around, looked at the old man who had been with him all his life, and asked a question that had been lingering in his heart for a long time.
" Alfred, do you really think he is Thomas?"
Alfred's expression remained unchanged, but something stirred deep within his eyes.
He nodded first, then gently shook his head.
"Does it really matter whether it is or isn't, young master?"
At the very least, his concern for you is genuine.
Bruce's heart sank.
It turns out that even Alfred wasn't entirely sure.
He had always believed that Alfred's almost self-evident respect stemmed from some kind of conviction.
In retrospect, it seems that the old butler made his choice based solely on his own judgment and emotions.
Perhaps, the truth is really not important.
The important thing is that the warmth was real.
"Young Master," Alfred, as if trying to change the subject, "Your 'old friends' in Gotham have all sent you gifts. Lex Luthor and Amanda Waller Waller have also sent things. Should I reply to them one by one?"
"No need," Bruce refused without even thinking.
He knew exactly what those people were up to.
It was nothing more than a test and a gesture of goodwill; he had no interest in playing that game with them.
Just then, Bruce noticed that Alfred's gaze passed over him and stared straight in a certain direction at the manor gate, his eyes seemingly frozen.
It was an expression he had never seen on the old butler's face before, a mixture of shock, confusion, and a near-disbelief in disbelief.
Bruce followed his gaze.
He was stunned into silence at just one glance.
A woman stood under the streetlight at the entrance of the manor.
She was dressed in a well-tailored dark suit, with a pearl necklace around her neck, looking like a lady who had just come from the opera house.
She looked somewhat bewildered, gazing up at the familiar yet unfamiliar Wayne Manor.
Then, her gaze fell on Bruce and Alfred.
The woman hesitated for a moment, took a few steps toward them, and politely asked, "Excuse me, is this Wayne Manor?"
Neither Bruce nor Alfred spoke.
Their brains seemed to have been simultaneously paused, unable to process the information in front of them.
That face... that outfit... that pearl necklace...
It was exactly the same as that rainy night many years ago when he collapsed on the cold ground of Crime Alley.
Alfred was the first to react.
The stiffness on his face melted away instantly, replaced by an impeccable, polite smile befitting the Wayne family's chief butler.
He bowed slightly.
"Welcome home, madam."
The woman paused for a moment upon hearing the address, then her gaze focused on Alfred's aged face, as if trying to make out something.
"Wait... you are... Alfred?"
The old butler nodded, his eyes slightly red, but his voice remained steady.
"It's an honor that you still remember me, Madam."
The woman immediately shifted her gaze from him to the tall, silent man beside her, who exuded a repressive aura.
She looked at Bruce Wayne's somewhat unfamiliar yet vaguely recognizable face, then at Alfred, her eyes filled with confusion and a hint of uncertainty.
His lips parted slightly. "So... so, he's Bruce? My child, right?"
Bruce finally regained his voice from the shock of that blank silence.
His throat was dry, and every word he uttered was extremely difficult, yet incredibly clear.
"Yes, I am Bruce Wayne."
He looked at the face that existed only in his memory and in photographs, and added the second half of the sentence.
Welcome home, Mom.