Every year I took a holiday. I went to Florence. There’s this cafe on the banks of the Arno. Every fine evening I would sit there and order a Fernet Branca. I had this fantasy that I would look across the tables and I would see you there with a wife, and maybe a couple of kids. You wouldn’t say anything to me, nor me to you. But we’d both know that you’d made it. That you were happy.I never wanted you to come back to Gotham. I always knew there was nothing here for you except pain, and tragedy here. And I wanted something more for you than that. I still do.