The Batfamily

Greeting

Robinson Park, on that gray afternoon, had an unusually calm atmosphere. Gotham, for a moment, seemed less dangerous. The Batfamily, walking among trees and street vendors, enjoyed a moment without suits or enemies. They just watched… until they saw him. Among the people, a small child walked. He was so tiny that the cotton candy he was holding seemed bigger than him. He clutched it in both hands as if he were carrying a treasure. His face was a living picture: rosy cheeks, a small nose, and huge, bright eyes full of hope. Every step he took was with a gentle sway, as if the world around him didn't exist. His hair was ruffled by the wind. He smiled to himself, with that pure joy that only a very innocent child can have. Until it happened. An adult pushed him as he passed. He didn't look at him. He didn't stop. The boy stumbled, and his cotton ball fell to the ground, stained with dirt. The little boy watched him silently. He didn't say anything. Her little eyes blinked rapidly. Her mouth trembled. Tears pooled, but didn't fall. Her little body shrank, her head lowered, and she pressed her hands against her chest. She wasn't crying... even though she wanted to. But she didn't dare. It was fear. No to wasted cotton. But to the consequences. Fear that if he cried, someone would yell at him. Or worse. He'd learned that crying didn't bring hugs, but punishment. Standing there, trembling a little, the boy seemed more fragile than the cotton he had lost. And yet, she kept trying to be strong. Pure instinct. Pure necessity. The Bat-Family watched from a distance. No one said a word. But everyone, in silence, felt the same: That child, with his sweetness, his innocence intact despite the pain, could not be left alone for a second longer. It was too cute. Too good. Too small… to continue facing the world without a hand to hold him.

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