𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒
Chapter 26 — All Souls Day | +18
ᯓ♡ fandom: The Batman (Reevesverse) | STRAYS ᯓ♡ word count: 1,150 ᯓ♡ synopsis: The Falcones build marble tombs, while Elara lights a single candle ᯓ♡ warnings: Grief • References to parental death • Medical trauma • Familial abuse • Emotional vulnerability
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It's November again. Outside, the weather remained mild, except for the cool breeze carrying dry leaves and the moisture from the cloudy skies above Gotham.
The safehouse didn’t look like a Falcone property, and that was deliberate, while Selina was out, keeping the perimeter honest, even if this neighborhood was technically safer than the one around the loft.
No marble or gold trim. No ancestral portraits staring down from the walls like judges. Just brick, iron-framed windows, and a long scarred table that had once belonged to a dock office. New and untested, the place smelled faintly of old wood, dust,the residue of a night spent being seen in public, of glassware clinking and eyes watching from across a room.
Inside, at a more reserved corner of the kitchen, there were a candle burning, something Elara buy just for this, on a small ceramic dish. Aside it, a small black and white photo features a couple; a middle aged man with is a boutonniere near the bottom right on the lapel, wearing a dark suit jacket, white collar of shirt is visible and sharp, a contrast with his fair skin and dark, neatly combed hair, aside from him there is a fair-skinned, middle aged woman, contrasting with the whiteness of her clothes, probably a wedding dress or formal attire. With hair kissing her shoulders, her expression is equally poised as the man's, the lighting on their faces is uneven, casting a shadow on the right side. It makes them look both timeless and heartbreakingly young.
The early days of the month brought sporadic waves of rain, as if the weather had also remembered the solemnity that surrounded All Souls Day. The girl hadn't heard anything about the holiday or paying your respects throughout the city. Maybe it's not the 'American' way to remember death, but Elara placed a flower aside the plate; a white sun orchid, a beautiful one from a flower shop nearby, with the broken stem. Because orchids were grandma's favorite, collected them as other women collected jewelry.
In the beginning, memories like this were accompanied by a bitterness that gnawed at the bones. Elara's aunts embittered her to the point of a heart attack, and Elara would never understand how someone would do that to their own family. Not just against oneself, but the helpless emptiness left in those who lived. In those who had in her the closest to a second parental figure.
But it already past the point of anger, it wasn't what grandma would want, or what she believed. Elara hadn't forgotten either, of course. But before the memories could water her dark eyes, she shakes head slightly, focusing on the silent prayer in her mind.
Finishing praying, the student move to finish a Livestock report the professor asked for this week, a soft sigh letting her as walk away. Elara make a mental note to put everything back in its place as soon as it is time for the candle to expire.
Sofia found her an hour later, bent over the laptop at the dining table, fingers flying across keys, lower lip caught between teeth in concentration. The kitchen was dim, Elara turned off most of the lights to focus. Except for that small, persistent glow from the corner.
The older woman noticed it immediately. The candle, the photo, the wilted orchid.
Sofia stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching the flame cast dancing shadows across the photo of two people she'd never met but understood; old, loved, and gone.
She'd walked through this mansion a thousand times and never set up a shrine for anyone. The Falcones had their mausoleum, cold marble and expensive flowers, but nothing like this. Nothing warm, nothing that smelled like melting wax and whispered prayers.
"Tesoro," she said quietly.
Elara looked up, startled, then offered a small smile. "Hi. Sorry, didn't hear you come in."
Sofia moved closer, her eyes drifting back to the corner setup. "What is this?"
"Oh." the girl closed the laptop, suddenly self-conscious. "It's… it's, uh, All Souls Day. In Brazil, we light candles for people who've passed, wash their tombs. So they know we remember them."
Sofia's gaze lingered on the photograph. "Your grandparents."
The Brazilian nodded. "Vovó and Vovô. They basically raised me." her voice caught slightly. "I know it's probably weird to do it here, in your kitchen, I just- I didn't have anywhere else and I thought-"
"It's not weird." Sofia's voice was firmer than you expected. She pulled out a chair, sat beside her caretaker. "Tell me about them."
She blinked, surprised. "You… you want to know?"
"Yes."
So she told her. About grandpa, the farmer with gentle hands who taught the girl how to tie your shoes, like they were rabbit ears, he said. About grandma, fierce and loving, who collected orchids like treasures and teach Elara to love animals. About how grandma died when she was ten and Vovó followed a few months later, her heart giving out during the legal battle with aunts.
"She didn't want to be buried aside him, not that don't loved him, but it isn't the same from when meet each other," Elara said softly. "I think that we it happened… I think she just decided she was done."
Sofia was quiet for a long moment, her dark eyes fixed on the candle flame. When she spoke, her voice was low, almost cautious. "My mother died when I was young, my father killed her, made it look like suicide."
Elara breath caught. She'd told you pieces about it, but never this directly.
"There's no candle for her," Sofia continued. "No prayers. Just a plot in the family mausoleum that I never visit because it's full of the people who helped him do it." Her jaw flexed. "I don't know how to remember her the way you remember them. With… tenderness."
The regressor reached out to cover her hand on the table. "You could start now. If you wanted."
Sofia's eyes met hers, something raw and uncertain flickering there. "I wouldn't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything. You just… you just sit with them. Remember them. Let them know they mattered."
Sofia looked at the candle again. The flame reflected in her eyes, making them look almost soft. "She used to hum," she said suddenly. "When she thought no one was listening. Old Italian songs. I don't remember the words, just… the sound."
"That's enough," Elara whispered. "That's remembering."
Sofia stood then, surprising you. She walked to the corner where the makeshift altar sat. The regressor watched as she stared at the flame, her expression unreadable.
After a moment, she spoke quietly and in Italian. The words were a private, flowing murmur, a language of ghosts and lullabies Elara didn't understand, but felt their weight in the air, like a confession, a blessing, a long-overdue goodbye.
Elara nodded, solemn.
When she came back to the table, Sofia's eyes were dry, but somehow lighter as she sat close this time, her thigh pressed against Elara's. "Thank you," she said simply.
"For what?"
"For showing me it's possible, to remember without…" She gestured vaguely. "Without it destroying you."
The student leaned head against her shoulder. "It still hurts. But it's a good hurt. The kind that means they mattered."
Sofia's arm came around Elara, pulling you closer. Together, sat in the dim kitchen, the candle burning in the corner, honoring the dead in the only way that mattered; by remembering them with love.
Outside, the rain started again, soft and steady, like the city itself was mourning, but inside, in this small corner of the safehouse, there was warmth. There was remembrance, and proof that the dead weren't truly gone as long as someone still lit candles in their name.
At some point, Sofia poured wine into mismatched glasses and didn’t drink much, neither did Elara, it wasn’t about that.
Sofia leans her back against the table, Elara joined her without asking, close but not touching at first.
“Arkham didn’t let us mark time,” Sofia said quietly. “No holidays. No dead days. Everything was… ongoing.”
Elara hesitated. Then reached out, rested her pinky against Sofia’s sleeve, barely there, with permission, not demand.
“They can’t stop time,” she said. “They just pretend they can.”
Sofia exhaled, something loosening. She let her shoulder rest against Elara’s. Just enough.
When the candle finally burned down hours later, Sofia helped clean it up. She handled the photo carefully, asking questions about the people in it, what they loved, what they taught Elara.
“Alberto would’ve hated all this, thought it was sentimental bullshit.” A pause. “But he liked when I remembered him anyway.”
And as the caretaker tucked everything away, Sofia said quietly. "Next year, I'll light one too, for him, for my mother."
Elara looked at her, saw the vulnerability there, the tentative hope that maybe grief could be something other than poison.
"I'll be here with you," the girl promised. "We'll remember them together."
Sofia pulled you into an embrace, her face buried in her hair. "Thank you, piccola, for teaching me how to mourn properly."
And in that moment, the safehouse felt a little less cold. A little more like a place where the dead could rest, knowing they're loved.
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