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Gotham rain is inherently different than rain anywhere else in the world– a byproduct of the decades-long pursuit by local corporations to see who could dump the most (sometimes literal) shit into the harbor.
Tim had, for a time, wondered if the rain could wash away the city’s sins. He had been young -too young to be catapulting himself across rooftops, following Batman’s movements through the crime-infested streets. He had been young enough to think that Gotham could change, that somehow the city could be cleansed, washed away of the grime and filth and almost ceaseless desire to torment its inhabitants.
As he grew physically and mentally, as young boys often do, he developed an attitude of… disillusionment. It was akin to acknowledgment, more like how Gotham was at its core. Sometimes, in the dead of night, when his parents were on the other side of the world, and the wind howled and slammed against his window like a massive bird, he thought the city might be alive . Alive in the way men were alive, killing and punching and relishing in the misery they invoked on the world around them. Alive in the way women were alive, strong, and surviving under the too-heavy boot that oppressed them. Alive in the way children were alive, screaming and fighting and forcing the world to look at them, despite how ugly and dirty and uncomfortable it may be, and screeching, ‘I’m here. Don’t forget about me. You brought me here; you don’t get to forget about me.’
Tim sometimes forgets that Gotham, the city of wrought iron, shattered glass bottles, forgotten souls, and abandoned needles, is not actually living, breathing , beneath him.
Tim sometimes forgets that no one else can feel the way the city ripples when Batman descends from the thick, syrupy shadows to bring justice.
Very little had changed between then and now– between his first foray into the underbelly of Gotham’s sinful center and the dawning of a dead boy’s name.
So, sometimes, when the weight of the steel, greed, and apathy sat slightly heavier on his shoulders, Tim would close his eyes and think about as many changes as he could remember. As small as they may have seemed—often insignificant to anyone but him—he would recall them with as much clarity as he could manage.
It made the weight lighter, though the memories could never vanquish the burden entirely. The remembrance, held by him with grave reverence, made him– made Robin– just a little lighter with every step. And in a way, for him, it was worth having seen as many awful, terrible, horrid things as he had.