A/N: Sad Oneshot. Even if you're not into sad stories, give this a try, k? tell me how I did. I know, I'm like ya. I want happy endings, damn it! ...but there always has to be a sad one.

"The song was beautiful," a voice murmured behind her. The blond singer spun around and gaped at the dashing man lingering in her doorway.

His pitch black gel-ed hair was slightly long but out of his face as of the moment. Broad shoulders with a defined built were disguised under a black trousers and suit jacket, a simple deep navy t-shirt numbing down the formal demeanor of his appearance. She had seen him in the crowd, making her sing more heart felt.

"Thank you," she smiled, then the smiled turned into a grim one. "Though I can't take all the credit." She paused and looked around the room, as if someone would be listening.

"Oh?" the man rose a brow, his steel eyes sparkling with a light she did not recognize. Undoubtedly the song had meant something to him, otherwise he wouldn't be here. Perhaps that's what it was, he was now disappointed that a song he fancied hadn't been created by the woman before him. The mere thought made her blush. Satisfied that no two-timing manager was around, she turned to the mirror, to his reflection still from the doorway.

"I did not write the song." He slightly rose his chin in comprehension and a tentative smirk appeared on his lips.

"You sang it rather beautifully, as if you had." She smiled sadly and connected her gaze with his.

"I only sang it so, because the woman who wrote it, she described it with so much passion that you couldn't help but feel her pain as she had told it." She saw the old photograph at the edge of the mirror and grasped it in the silk gloves of her gown.

" 'Had' ?" he asked. She nodded.

"She passed away last year. The hospital said it was the history of her single miscarriage, for the man had left her pregnant. But I know, she really died of a broken heart." she sighed and sat down on the chair at her back.

"I'm sorry to hear that." she couldn't be sure but he seemed affected by the set of news of her friend's death. Had he known her perhaps? Maybe that's why he came back stage in the first place?

"You know…" she slowly turned and traced the woman's face on the old photograph's surface, "You remind me of the man she dedicated the song to." The man's face exploded with amusement and coyness, yet subtle offence. Her face turned scarlet in realization. "I-I mean… I meant no offence, sir, I-" she stuttered, suddenly using the photograph to fan her face.

Suddenly, it was ripped from her fingers, the photograph's back side now being studied by the man.

She hadn't noticed him move. His whole demeanor had turned tense, his shoulders straight and his face contoured in deep thought. He traced the pad of his thumb over the writing of the back.

Recognition flashed in those hooded eyes.

He quickly flipped the picture and his face paled. "Excuse me, sir?" Why had he ripped the picture from her hands? His hand started to tremble, his lips a thin line. "Sir?" she asked again.

"…Raven…" the whisper escaped his lips. The woman suddenly rose.

"Do-," she corrected herself, "Did you know her? My friend, Raven?" His head shot up suddenly, realizing another thing, it seemed. It surprised her the sudden change in his eyes, gone from steel blue to azure. They looked… scared. Slowly, his head started to move from side to side, his body not seeming to want to signal the word 'no'.

"She… Raven-" his voice was hoarse, making it hard to comprehend.

"Sir? Are you okay?"

Suddenly, he sprang from the room, the photograph swiftly falling to the ground behind him.

She rose, forgetting her shoes and followed him down the hall. "Sir?" A few heads peeked out of the hall. She saw him stop his quick sprint , look both ways the hall suddenly parted and went to his left. She grew confused, as she picked up her skirt and pace: Why was he heading to the dead end?

As soon as she turned the corner, however, she realized she was alone.

Her eyes widened at the open window. He hadn't… no, he couldn't have committed… She ran to the window and fearfully looked out from the twelve story opening. There was no body on the concrete. But that made no sense. She had seen him turn into this hall. He should be on the concrete if not in the hall.

Suddenly, a black clothed body swooped by her, making her blink in surprise. She leaned out further and gaped. The Nightwing swung from building to building, making his way to downtown Bludhaven. The Vigilante suddenly let go of the cable holding him and extended another, turning from her view in between building complexes. His sudden disappearance made her return to her previous search.

No one, besides her, had talked to Raven, well, as far as she had told her. Sighing in complete baffle and disappointment, she leaned back into the hall and shut the window.

The lone shadowed figure let go of the cable holding him high in the air, made rotations in the bitter cold air of the night, and finally landed precariously on an elevated tomb stone, facing the Bludhaven Cemetery. His form did not move for a good few minutes, symbolizing the definition of perfect balance at the top of the marble stature of an anguished Angel.

He seemed to spot something afar, and springing in sudden agility, he moved from statue to statue, moving with such determination… He sprang higher into the air at a point, landing on the ground this time. The night revealed his agitated breath, illuminating the warm air coming from his lips as small clouds. He walked, no footsteps heard, towards a rather weathered tomb, falling in the shadow of a bare tree. He stopped short of the shadow.

He suddenly knelt besides the stone plate. He traced his gloved fingers over the encrypted letters on its surface.

"…no…"

The little girl, a few yards away, looked up from the same stone her father had been staring at for the longest time, and gaped at what she saw.

The Nightwing, the Protector of Bludhaven, was in the same Cemetery she was visiting with her father.

What was he doing here?

She saw him fall on his knees, trace the stone before him, and grip the thick edges of the formatted tomb stone with both hands, placing his forehead on its cool surface.

She gripped her father's hand tighter as she saw his shoulders suddenly shake. She recognized the movement. Her father had been doing the same thing since her mother had passed away, since the one evening she had sneaked into his study when he was suppose to be working.

The Nightwing… was crying.

A/N: like I told you...sad. Any feed back is appreciated. :