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Time is quite well known for its ability to change things, to wipe away the stains left behind by the past. And yet it did nothing for the blood that soaked under your skin, the blood that you can never wash away completely. Bruce let a bitter laugh echo the halls of Wayne Manor, though it almost sounded like a sob. He had spent days pacing the halls of the place he grew up in, not only that but the place his father grew up in and his grandfather. He wasn't really too sure of how far back down his family line the mansion had gone, but it was far enough. He paused briefly by the room that he stayed in as a young boy, before his parents' death. For a moment, he could hear his mother singing him a lullaby, feel his father's hand on his shoulders, then it was gone. Two gunshots, a bullet into each of their chests, his too small hands pressing into the too big hole that let too much blood out of their too cold bodies, scattered pearls shining in the light of the moon and flickering streetlight. He had spent hours waiting for someone to notice him in between the two cold bodies.