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⌖ FLOOR PLAN · WAYNE MANOR ⌖
a record of every room and who fills it
| IBRUCEthe foundation | IIALFREDthe hearth |
| IIIDICKfirst staircase | IVJASONthe locked room |
| VTIMthe study | VISTEPHANIEthe door |
| VIICASSthe walls | VIIIDUKEthe sunroom |
| IXDAMIANsecret passage | XBARBARAthe overlook |
— CONTENTS —
| I. | 🗝️ | BRUCE | — The Foundation |
| II. | ☕ | ALFRED | — The Hearth |
| III. | 🪟 | DICK | — The First Staircase |
| IV. | 🔒 | JASON | — The Locked Room |
| V. | 📚 | TIM | — The Study |
| VI. | 🚪 | STEPHANIE | — The Door That Always Slams |
| VII. | 🎭 | CASS | — The Walls That Listen |
| VIII. | ☀️ | DUKE | — The Sunroom |
| IX. | ⚔️ | DAMIAN | — The Secret Passage |
| X. | 💻 | BARBARA | — The Overlook |
| XI. | 🏛️ | THE HOUSE | — Itself |
| — | 📐 | CODA | — The Blueprint |
THE HOUSE THAT FORGIVENESS BUILT
A Blueprint of the Wayne Manor
The house is not silent, though it pretends to be.
It is a cathedral of footsteps, echoes, and doors that only close halfway.
It is a house with a heart too loud for its ribcage,
and too many bedrooms for the number of people who sleep.
It was not always a house. Once, it was a boy.
Once, it was a boy's heart held in the shape of a manor,
shaped like a promise he made in the blood of two people who could no longer answer.
Now it is rooms. Wings. Secrets in the floorboards.
Now it is a blueprint of what loss does when it is given too much time and no grave to rest in.
The manor is not Wayne Manor anymore, not really.
It has been renamed by every person who has bled in it.
⌂
I. BRUCE (THE FOUNDATION)
There is a man beneath the floorboards.
Not buried, just settled.
He walks like the house is his skin.
The walls breathe when he breathes, the lights flicker when he remembers.
He does not sleep in the bed meant for him;
he sleeps in the silence between rooms, in the spine of the house.
Once, he tried to build a monument to justice.
Instead, he built an altar to guilt.
And then he made bedrooms,
for children who would learn how to carry his ghosts.
He is the cellar.
Cool, controlled, curated like a museum of what not to become.
Every blueprint begins with him.
But nothing ends with him.
He does not speak often.
But the house hums his name in its electrical wiring.
⌂
II. ALFRED (THE HEARTH)
If the house is haunted, Alfred is the ghost that keeps the rest at bay.
He keeps the lights on. The tea warm. The wounds stitched.
He carries grief like he carries the tray — balanced, quiet, never spilling.
He knows which walls remember the first scream, and which ones should not.
He does not knock before entering a room. He doesn't need to.
He is the hearth. Not the fire, but the stone surrounding it.
Constant. Warm, not because he must be, but because he chooses to be.
He is the last hand on every shoulder,
and the last voice before the nightmares win.
He never calls them by name when they are broken.
He just says, "Master," and they remember who they are.
He died once.
The house folded in on itself,
until someone built a new wing out of the ache.
⌂
III. DICK (THE FIRST STAIRCASE)
He was the first room added on. The brightest.
With windows wide enough for laughter to escape.
He was the blueprint Bruce never meant to draw again.
He came in through a trapeze and never quite stopped flying.
He is the hallway that connects what was to what is.
He is the step between pain and movement.
He is the floorboard that still creaks because he wants it to.
He left. Came back. Left again.
The house always leaves a porchlight on for him.
Even when he doesn't notice. Even when he forgets where home is.
He paints in light,
but even light has shadows.
He is the bedroom with too many pillows,
because he wants everyone to stay the night.
⌂
IV. JASON (THE LOCKED ROOM)
[ This door is locked. Are you sure you want to open it? Please click the lock to open. ]
This is the room that smells like gunpowder and roses.
No one says his name here without flinching.
Even the walls learned not to echo it.
He died in the hallway.
The blood is gone but the memory is a stain the house cannot scrub out.
He returned like a basement flood — violent, unwelcome, familiar.
He punched holes in the drywall of memory.
He installed locks no one had the key for.
He slept in a different bed every time he visited.
But the house still made him a room.
It's painted in rage and apology.
He built the closet himself, full of jackets that don't fit.
There's a window that overlooks the back garden.
He doesn't open it, but he likes knowing it's there.
He calls the house a mausoleum.
But he keeps coming back.
⌂
V. TIM (THE STUDY)
There is always one light on at 3:00 a.m.,
and it's his.
He didn't break into the house. He studied it, mapped it,
learned the rhythms of the man who lived there
until he became a rhythm himself.
He doesn't walk through doors. He slips through cracks.
He is the click of keys. The rustle of newspaper.
He is the library that keeps expanding
because there is always one more question to ask.
He lives in the walls sometimes,
not out of fear but preference.
He rearranged the attic.
Turned it into a war room.
Woke up with maps printed on his hands.
He does not know how to rest.
But the house gave him a chair that spins.
And once in a while,
he spins it just to feel dizzy.
⌂
VI. STEPHANIE (THE DOOR THAT ALWAYS SLAMS)
She arrives like a breeze and leaves like a hurricane.
The house is not big enough for her laughter
but she tries anyway.
Her door is purple.
It doesn't match the others.
That's the point.
She patched up the roof once.
Wired a new alarm system with duct tape and stubbornness.
She sleeps with a bat under her bed and a joke in her mouth.
She knocks before entering.
But only because she's already halfway in.
She redecorates the dining room when no one's looking.
The curtains are brighter. The paint has glitter.
She leaves notes in the fridge.
Some are threats. Some are love letters.
She wasn't expected.
But the house needed her anyway.
⌂
VII. CASS (THE WALLS THAT LISTEN)
She does not speak,
but the house knows her by silence.
She walks barefoot through the rooms like she's listening to the floor breathe.
She dances in the hallway when no one is watching.
Sometimes, the house watches.
She repainted the walls with her hands.
Not because they were ugly,
but because she wanted them to feel felt.
Her room is made of soft things — pillows, books,
the kind of softness you earn.
She knows where the house creaks.
She steps gently there.
She does not build walls.
She becomes them.
Safe. Strong. Seen.
⌂
VIII. DUKE (THE SUNROOM)
He came late.
The house wasn't sure what to make of him.
So it gave him the light.
Windows that open wide.
A bench made for books and early coffee.
A garden view.
A place that chooses joy.
He doesn't raise his voice.
He is a voice.
Clear. Kind. Steady like daylight.
He found the light switch no one else noticed.
Installed brighter bulbs.
Taught the others that brightness is not betrayal.
He keeps a spare key under the flowerpot.
For friends.
For futures.
⌂
IX. DAMIAN (THE SECRET PASSAGE)
He entered through a trapdoor.
Not unwanted, but unexpected.
He speaks like the house is his inheritance.
And maybe it is.
He sharpens knives in the kitchen.
Names the gargoyles.
Sleeps with a sword under his pillow.
His room is perfectly arranged.
Until it isn't.
Then the house knows not to ask.
There is a painting he keeps hidden.
It's not of himself.
But he stares at it like it might become a mirror.
He leaves apple slices on the counter.
No one eats them.
But someone always washes the plate.
He pretends he hates this house.
But he's memorized every corner.
⌂
⌂
XI. THE HOUSE ITSELF
The house is too big and never big enough.
It holds grief in its gutters,
rage in its cellar,
and laughter in rooms that echo still.
It creaks. It groans. It survives.
It locks some doors,
opens others.
It has stairs that lead nowhere.
Windows that open to memories.
Closets full of suits, secrets,
and one too many capes.
It is not a perfect house.
But it stands.
Because every person who has ever lived here
has decided, somehow, to stay.
⌂
CODA: THE BLUEPRINT
There is a blueprint on the kitchen table.
It is smudged with oil,
scribbled over in three languages and two arguments.
Someone is redesigning the east wing.
Someone else is baking.
Someone else is bleeding.
Someone is laughing.
The house holds it all.
The house does not forget.
But it forgives.