it's the disease of the age
The lonely hill in the Palisades, with no neighbors - or even bordering property - for acres and acres, is a place Bruce doesn't visit very often. Brick by brick, he'd told Alfred, and that's just what he'd done. Wayne Manor, fully rebuilt, stands there now in the gloom of the New Jersey fall, still looking to Bruce like a phantasm. Something unreal.
She's got company, even if it's not what used to be; the grounds haven't been kept up, the garden is still decayed and crumbling, and the carriage houses have all been converted into storage and construction units. There's a fork lift in the lee of the north tower, and Bruce's Lamborghini (license un-suspended and everything) is parked next to it.
But he's not inside; he's not inside because it's nearing sunset and soon, he'll have to turn all the lights on and listen to the faint electric hum and walk over the marble that's got dirt and splinters from construction and listen to it echo, devoid of carpet and furniture and curtains and art and everything that made it a home and not a shell. He used to walk silently on unfinished beams and over skeleton floors, touching, sensing, remembering, and claiming penance in his own private way - he's been through with the only family that remains, planning and sorting and organizing and making notes and checking doorways (and elevators into the deep), and now that those hurdles are over all that's left is to get on with it.
Back to normal.
Bruce is sitting on the remnants of an old shepherd's rock wall down from the back of the mansion he grew up in, staring out at the view of the city framed in the dying light. He sent out a message, brief - Need to borrow you for something - attached only with coordinates. Inspecting why would be more trouble than, in his opinion, it's worth. He's fine with the internal reasoning that he doesn't have a frame for normal besides this.