Guest
“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’d see you there, with a wife. You wouldn’t say anything to me nor me to you. But we’d both 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. And I wanted something more for you than that.
