Time travel. It had to be. He'd gone back in time. That was the only explanation as to why he could hear his father's voice outside the bedroom door telling him to wake up or he'd be late for school.
The bedroom door wasn't his anymore.
His father was dead.
As the cheerful voice prodded him again, this time mentioning his step-mother making pancakes--a stepmother who was also dead--hot tears stung Tim's eyes and he focused hard on the door, wishing it away.
Wishing it all away and back to the reality of Wayne Manor and the overly large bedroom with the cherry wood furniture and the carved oak door and Alfred's soothing voice waking him.
Not particle board and pressed wood fibers. Not the futon from Ikea. Not his father.
The door didn't change.
His father's voice rang in his ears.
Tim turned, buried his face in his pillow, and sobbed.
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