"In Gotham, this is the only way for ordinary people to become something more. Sooner or later, we wouldn't be nobodies anymore. We'd be famous worldwide." The man touched another trunk. "The Irish Gang—Mickey, Jimmy, Kevin, Willy, and Donny."
"Died from gunfire."
Green branches unfurled. Three owl cries echoed through rain.
He moved to the next tree.
"My father loved me, but he never let me touch his world. I was always kept thousands of miles away from him." A pause. "Alberto Falcone."
"Died from gunfire."
Someone in the crowd made a choked sound.
The man continued, relentless as tide.
"My grandmother was eighty years old. We couldn't pay property taxes, so they foreclosed on the house and she died. I joined the Maroni family because I had to make money." Touch. Sprout. Owl cry. "Piven Quick."
"Died from gunfire."
"You son of a bitch—" A voice erupted from the Maroni mourners, raw with fury. "How do you know about Quick—"
A hand clamped down on the speaker's shoulder. "Carlo, don't. Don't interrupt him."
Carlo subsided, trembling.
The cloaked figure moved to another tree.
"When I started this business, I didn't think much about it. Just wanted my wife and daughter to eat better. Couldn't let them see me hungry." The voice remained soft, carrying through rain like prayer. "Tony Brown."
"Died from gunfire."
"My mom worked two jobs at forty years old. Still selling blood to pay off my student loans. I couldn't let her do that anymore." Touch. Bloom. Cry. "Mary Smith."
"Died in gang violence."
"I used to be respectable. University graduate, bright future. Then I got sick. Health insurance denied my claim. Ended up in Gotham's underworld just to pay medical debt." The bitterness in those words could have curdled milk. "Landon Duke."
"Died in gang violence."
"I was eating once a day, sometimes less. Then a friend told me Maroni's gang fed their people. He wasn't lying. I had the best pizza of my life, and I could eat three times a day." Wonder crept into the recitation. "Beckham Wilson."
"Died from gunfire."
"I don't know what I should have done differently. I was born in Gotham. There didn't seem to be anything else available besides this." Touch. Growth. Lament. "Camilla Martin."
"Died from gunfire."
"I was born loving to kill with guns. Pretty good at it, too. Maybe one day I could've killed the parents who abandoned me." No judgment in the voice. Just statement of fact. "Sir Thomas."
"Died from gunfire."
He recited sentence by sentence, voice soft but carried far by owl cries interwoven with falling rain. Every sentence about someone who'd lived. Every paragraph a sloppy, desperate life. Every word an accusation against everyone present—and everyone absent.
Some buried here had been killed by Maroni soldiers. Others had killed Maroni family members themselves. But in death, they revealed identical backgrounds. Similar tragedies. Parallel desperation.
The gangsters—men used to living on knife's edge, killing without hesitation—had never realized so clearly that every corpse was fundamentally the same. These similar people had died killing each other over territory, money, respect.
Whether friend or enemy, everyone sleeping underground shared an identical future with those still standing.
What was worse: the Gotham civilians these dead gangsters had harmed looked exactly like their former selves. Poor. Desperate. Trapped.
Nobody spoke. In the gray rain, they mourned from the bottom of their hearts—for all the dead, for all the living, for enemies and friends alike.
The grief was universal and terrible.
The incident spread through Gotham the next day like wildfire.
When the Roman heard, he showed neither anger nor sadness. He just recited the tree planter's epitaphs quietly to himself, memorizing each name, each wasted life.
The following afternoon, the Godfather appeared at the cemetery.
Maroni stood in the rain beneath a black umbrella, watching Falcone approach. The two crime lords stared at each other silently—no arguments, no threats. Just acknowledgment.
Then both turned to watch the figure in the black cloak reappear at the tree line.
This time, he'd brought children in black raincoats. But otherwise, everything was identical.
Dig holes. Plant trees. Fill soil. Boring, exhausting labor.
But both gangs stood quietly, watching from beginning to end. Listening to Jude's eulogies. Seeing him spread fertilizer. Watching cypress trees bloom impossibly green. Hearing owls sing their threefold cry.
Days passed. One tree after another took root. More mourners arrived—gangsters at first, then ordinary citizens. High-ranking officials and wealthy elites. Working-class Gothamites.
How long had it been since Gotham experienced such deep, collective sorrow? How long since the city's people felt others' grief so personally?
Nobody knew the answer.
Citizens continued coming, silently watching small trees representing deceased friends or family members slowly grow branches and leaves. Impossible green against gray sky.
Only here, only now, did Gotham's civilians dare stand before Roman and Maroni—expressing their dissatisfaction with the city's current state through silent presence.
Perhaps it wasn't just dissatisfaction with Gotham.
Perhaps it was rage at the entire world that created places like this.
"Rosen, hurry up! This is huge news!"
"Albert, I still don't think this is a good idea."
"What nonsense are you talking about?" Albert pushed through the crowd with his partner trailing behind, camera equipment bouncing. "We're the first reporters brave enough to approach the tree planter! We'll get exclusive first-hand interview material! Think how sensational this will be!"
"Yes, but—Falcone—"
"So many days have passed. Have you seen anyone attacked at these ceremonies? I guarantee the scene is safe!"
"But this is solemn. I don't really want to—"
"Don't talk nonsense! Just do what I say! Understand?"
Under Albert's forceful insistence, Rosen fell silent.
No rain today, at least. They squeezed through the edge of the silent crowd, pushing toward the front.
"Excuse me, friend. Make way, please. Thank you."
Albert shoved left and right, finally pushing past someone blocking his view. The man turned, revealing sharp blue eyes beneath blond hair.
"What's your problem?"
"Oh! Commissioner Gordon, sorry, sorry—just trying to get some pictures."
"You'd better not." Gordon turned away, clearly unwilling to discuss it further. He held Barbara's hand tightly, face set in warning.
Harvey Dent stood nearby in a windbreaker, arm around Gilda. He shot Albert a look that could have frozen helium.
But Albert didn't care. What he was doing wasn't illegal. As an annoying journalist, he'd grown accustomed to cold stares and accusations of being "cold-blooded and heartless."
Compared to first-hand exclusive news, what did those comments matter?
News only cared about ratings. Bosses only cared about profit. Journalists with conscience had long since starved to death seeking truth.
The ones who survived were people like Albert.
Pragmatic. Ruthless. Alive.
He pushed forward, camera ready, conscience comfortably dormant.