Chapter 174: The Long Easter (Nine)

In the windless cold night of Gotham, the air around the cathedral seemed frozen into a block of transparent ice; the cold moonlight streamed through the windows at the top and fell upon the statue of Jesus, casting a long cross-shaped shadow across the chilly floor tiles.

At the center of the cross lay a massive crack in the old church's floor, a chasm splitting the shadow of the crucified Jesus.

A faint glow seeped from the crack, as if something beneath were subtly stirring, while two distinct silhouettes stood along the two directions pointed to by the cross on the ground.

On the left, Batman's face was grim, his muscles taut; though he stood perfectly upright, his posture radiated readiness to strike.

Opposite him, Evans knelt half-bent, head bowed; beneath the dim moonlight, his expression was unreadable.

A thin veil of clouds drifted past the moon, and the moonlight streaming through the window flickered like plucked violin strings, dimming and brightening intermittently.

A shadow fell over Batman; between the gaps of his mask, his blue irises shifted into uneven clock hands. As the moonlight faded again, the hour hand reversed nearly a full circle—everything rewound ten hours.

Cobble stood before a cabinet in the old house, watching his mother rummage through a pile of dusty relics. He stepped beside her, reaching to grasp her arm and help her rise.

But Mrs. Cobble swatted his hand away. Cobble sighed helplessly. "Mother, what are you looking for? We've turned over every cabinet in the house."

Behind Cobble, the floor was littered with debris—not just in the center of the living room, but also piled at the bedroom door.

"I need to find the umbrella, find the umbrella! It's raining—I need an umbrella…"

Cobble picked up the umbrella from the chair beside him and handed it to her, but Mrs. Cobble acted as if she saw nothing, continuing to rummage deep inside the lower cabinet.

She searched from dusk till dawn, then from dawn till dusk again, until she collapsed from exhaustion and went to rest. Only then did Cobble have time to tidy up the scattered items.

In recent days, Mrs. Cobble's condition had improved slightly—she was no longer as aggressive—but in return, she grew increasingly peculiar, insisting daily on overturning every cluttered object in the house. Cobble could not stop her; he could only follow and help her clean.

He knelt on one knee, propping himself up, and began picking up the scattered items to return them to the cabinet.

This cabinet, beneath the bookshelf, held mostly old Cobble's collections—picture frames and candlesticks. These items held no monetary value, but when Mrs. Cobble was lucid, she would take them out to polish, remembering Cobble's father.

Cobble tried to place the last picture frame on the upper shelf, but something blocked it from sliding fully inside—the cabinet door would not close.

Cobble assumed the items inside had been misaligned, so he reached in to adjust them. Instead, he found, deep within the cabinet, an envelope-like object.

He pulled out the envelope. Its back was coated in dust. By the dim living room light, he wiped the dust away with his fingers and revealed a line of elegant cursive script: "For Cobble's Eyes Only…"

Cobble frowned. He was certain he had never received such a letter, nor would anyone send such a formal note to a destitute boy.

The envelope was made of fine dural paper, its English script crisp and clear, with no trace of ink bleed.

Cobble turned the envelope over and saw the wax seal had been broken. The stamp on the seal felt familiar.

As he opened the envelope and withdrew the letter, he recognized the signature: "Carmine Falcone."

It was an invitation from the old don.

The text was brief: inviting Cobble to attend a funeral, signed by Carmine Falcone, to be held at Gotham Cathedral.

Cobble scanned the invitation. The handwriting was unmistakably the old don's—but peculiarly, beneath the main text, a smaller line read: "You must attend. Otherwise, I shall come to greet you myself."

Cobble's eyes narrowed. He had not forgotten: his father had died after attending the funeral of the don's eldest son, in the rain.

But this invitation filled him with unease.

Few people issued such formal invitations for funerals—especially not the deceased's own father.

Cobble had seen the old don's handwriting before. He could tell: the script on this invitation was steady, fluid—nothing like that of a grieving father who had just lost his eldest son.

And that small line was outright threatening—who ever forced someone to attend a funeral?

Cobble faintly recalled: the day after his father returned from the funeral, he developed a high fever. He burned with heat, delirious, unable to speak a single coherent sentence.

The doctor diagnosed pneumonia, but before they could transport him to the hospital, he died. Cobble received no last words from his father—and thus knew nothing of the funeral's details.

Yet this invitation stirred deep suspicion in Cobble.

He recalled his conversations with Evans. Cobble was skilled at drawing out information through conversation. During his talks with Evans, he had subtly probed for details about the mysterious eldest son—but Evans revealed nothing useful.

Cobble crouched before the cabinet, reasoning: based on existing information, Evans must have been born before Alberto's death. Though their age gap was unclear, Alberto and Evans likely lived together for a time.

Yet what puzzled Cobble was Evans's vague, contradictory descriptions of his brother. He once called Alberto hardworking and ambitious, a genius, the perfect heir—yet he also claimed Alberto was perpetually frustrated by failing to meet the don's expectations. In Evans's accounts, the most frequent topic was Alberto's arguments with the don.

The accidental discovery of the invitation reignited Cobble's doubts about his father's death. Carrying this suspicion, when he returned to Evans's ward at Arkham Asylum, he began subtly guiding Evans to recall more details during casual conversation.

"Last time you said you wanted to join the university basketball team—you must've played since childhood, right? Honestly…"

Cobble lay on the bed, shifting his posture, his voice filled with longing: "I envy families with multiple children. Brothers are natural playmates. The two boys living at the corner of my street—I often see them playing soccer in the alley. Didn't your brother play basketball with you?"

"He…" Evans instinctively started to answer, then fell silent, the words caught in his throat. He sat motionless on the edge of the bed. Cobble asked: "What's wrong?"

"No, nothing…" Evans shook his head. "I just can't remember clearly. I swear I remember having a good relationship with my brother—we must've played together—but when I try to recall, nothing comes to mind."

"I'm sorry—I may have been too forward. Yesterday, I found an invitation at home: the don invited my father to your brother's funeral. You must have attended your brother's funeral too, right?"

"Funeral?" Evans murmured the word, then sat staring blankly, silent for a long while. Finally, he said: "I think… I'm sorry, but my childhood memories are hazy. I remember nothing of what happened then."

Evans sighed. "Lately, my mood has been terrible. I keep having dreams. Maybe that's affecting my memory."

"The churches in Gotham are currently inaccessible—I can't pray. It makes me restless. I haven't seen the old priest in a long time. I used to enjoy confiding in him."

Evans looked deeply troubled. Cobble said: "Have you considered writing him a letter?"

Evans shook his head. "Gotham Cathedral is badly damaged—the floor has a huge crack. Repairs will take a long time, and the construction is dangerous. The old priest moved away. I don't know where he is now."

"But you're the don's son—if you asked someone to inquire, surely you could find him?"

Evans thought for a moment. "Actually, I don't want to disturb him. He's finally had a rare vacation."

"But Easter is such an important holiday. Without the church, he can't preach to the faithful—he must feel lonely. If you two were close, why not visit him?"

Evans considered. "You're right. I'll have someone look for him. If I find him, I can invite him to Falcone Manor for Easter."

"Your relationship with the don…"

"It's not as bad as you imagine," Evans sighed faintly. "The don isn't worried about my ambition—he's worried I have none."

"But for some reason, whenever I face him—especially during serious conversations—I feel a surge of impatience. I desperately want to say something to him, yet I can't speak."

"With him, I always act extreme. Yet with classmates and teachers, I'm nothing like this."

"Before I was admitted, this grew worse. Several times, we nearly came to blows. I suspected I had psychological issues—so I sought Professor Shiler."

"So that's why you're here?"

Evans nodded. "Now I think—I'm not ill. I just think too much, and I lack emotional control."

"If medical methods can't ease your emotions, try turning to faith," Cobble told Evans. "I don't believe in God—but if you're a devout believer, perhaps everything will improve on Easter Day."

"I hope so."

As the moonlight beyond the window deepened, Cobble heard Evans whispering a quiet prayer. The sound echoed endlessly through the empty ward, lulling him toward sleep.