The argument had been building for weeks. Matthew sat at the kitchen table, face composed in what he hoped was an expression of youthful determination rather than adult stubbornness. Across from him, James Gordon sighed heavily, removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose.
"Matt, I respect your interest in religion, but St. Michael's is across town. The commute alone would be—"
"I can manage it," Matthew interrupted. "The school has other blind students. They have resources, special textbooks, trained staff."
"Your current school has adapted wonderfully," his father countered. "Your teachers say you're thriving."
"Academically, sure. But there's more to education than test scores."
Barbara, perched on the kitchen counter despite their father's frequent reminders not to, snorted. "Since when do you care about anything besides straight A's, brainiac?"
Matthew turned toward his sister's voice. At fifteen, Barbara had entered her rebellious phase—complete with dark clothing, political opinions that changed weekly, and a newfound skepticism toward all institutions. Her heartbeat betrayed her though; beneath the sarcasm lay genuine curiosity about this unexpected request.
"I've been reading about comparative religions," Matthew explained—a half-truth that obscured his lifetime of Catholic education and practice from another existence. "The structure of Catholic school appeals to me."
"The structure?" Barbara's eyebrows had surely risen. "Or the guilt? Catholics practically invented guilt as an art form."
"Barbara," their father warned.
"What? I'm just saying, of all the choices..." She hesitated, then delivered in mock-seriousness: "Given their historical track record with children, maybe a blind kid isn't the best—"
"That's enough." Gordon's voice carried the rare edge that silenced even Barbara's sharpest retorts.
An uncomfortable silence fell over the kitchen. Matthew maintained his composed expression despite the twist of pain in his gut. Barbara's joke hit closer to home than she could know. The Catholic Church had been his sanctuary in both lives, a source of comfort and moral guidance—but also a complex institution with its own failings and hypocrisies.
"I've researched the scholarship programs," Matthew continued quietly. "With my grades and... situation, I'd qualify for full tuition assistance. I just need your permission."
Gordon's chair creaked as he leaned back. "This is really important to you."
"Yes."
"May I ask why? And don't say 'structure' again."
Matthew had prepared for this question, crafting an answer that was neither lie nor full truth. "After the accident, everything changed. My whole world. I've been reading religious texts, and they talk about finding meaning in suffering. I want to understand that better."
The statement hung in the air. Matthew could sense his father's heartbeat steadying—a sign he was genuinely considering the request rather than formulating another refusal.
"St. Michael's has an excellent academic reputation," Gordon finally conceded. "And if they're equipped for students with visual impairments..." He sighed again. "I'll call them tomorrow."
"Thank you, Dad," Matthew said, restraining himself from showing too much relief.
"Don't thank me yet. They might not have openings mid-year."
But they did. Two weeks later, Matthew walked through the doors of St. Michael's Catholic School, the scent of candle wax and incense stirring memories from another lifetime. The familiar rhythms of prayer and ritual, the cadence of scripture readings, the cool stone floors beneath his feet—all of it felt like coming home after a long absence.
...
.....
...
On a crisp autumn afternoon, Matthew knelt in the small confessional booth attached to the school chapel. Through the wooden screen, he could sense Father Callahan's presence—the steady heartbeat, the faint aroma of peppermints and old books.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," Matthew began, the words as familiar as his own heartbeat. "It has been two weeks since my last confession."
"What troubles you, my son?" Father Callahan's voice was gentle, carrying the subtle hint of Ireland that decades in Gotham had failed to erase.
Matthew hesitated. What could he possibly confess? The sins of a past life? The deception he practiced daily? The violence he had once embraced as Daredevil and later as the possessed leader of the Hand?
"I struggle with pride, Father," he finally said. "And with anger."
"Pride and anger are challenging for everyone," Father Callahan responded. "Perhaps you could give me an example?"
Matthew's hands tightened on his cane. "Sometimes I know things—answers in class, solutions to problems—but I pretend not to know them so people won't think I'm different."
"That sounds more like humility than pride, Matthew."
"It's not humility when it's calculated," Matthew countered. "It's manipulation. I want people to underestimate me."
A long pause followed. Matthew could hear the slight shift of the priest's weight, the subtle change in his breathing pattern—signs of surprise at this unusually self-aware analysis from a twelve-year-old.
"And the anger?" Father Callahan finally asked.
This was harder to articulate without revealing too much. "I get angry when I see—when I hear about injustice. People hurting others. Breaking laws. I want to..." Matthew swallowed. "I want to make them stop."
"That desire for justice isn't itself sinful," the priest observed. "It's how we act on it that matters. Do you lash out? Seek revenge?"
Matthew thought of the Hand. Of Bullseye. Of blood on his hands that no confession had ever fully washed away.
"I have," he admitted softly. "Not recently. But I've wanted to."
Father Callahan was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice carried a different quality—less the formal confessor, more the concerned mentor.
"Matthew, I've noticed something about you in these past months. You carry burdens unusual for someone your age. Your questions in theology class, your understanding of scripture... they suggest a soul that has wrestled with darkness."
Matthew remained silent, heart pounding.
"Perhaps," Father Callahan continued gently, "you're being too hard on yourself. Children often feel responsible for things beyond their control. The accident that took your sight—"
"It's not about the accident," Matthew interrupted, then caught himself. "Not entirely."
"Then what is it about?"
How could he possibly explain? That he remembered a life spanning decades? That he had been a hero and a villain, a savior and a destroyer? That he had died with blood on his hands and somehow been granted a second chance in this world?
"I've done things," Matthew said carefully, "made choices that hurt people. I don't want to be that person again."
Another lengthy silence followed. Matthew could sense Father Callahan's concern, his struggle to interpret these cryptic statements from a child who spoke like an old soul.
"Matthew," the priest finally said, "scripture teaches us that God's grace is sufficient for us, and His power is made perfect in our weakness. Whatever burdens you carry—whether real or imagined—you don't have to carry them alone."
"But what if those burdens are deserved?" Matthew whispered. "What if they're punishment?"
"That's not how grace works," Father Callahan replied firmly. "Redemption isn't about punishment or deservedness. It's about transformation. Becoming who you were created to be, not remaining trapped by who you once were."
The words penetrated Matthew's defenses, speaking directly to the core of his struggle. Who was he created to be in this second life?
"For your penance," Father Callahan continued, returning to the formal confession ritual, "I want you to reflect on Psalm 51. 'Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.' Meditate on what renewal means for you."
"Yes, Father."
"And Matthew? My door is always open if you need to talk—in or out of the confessional."
After receiving absolution, Matthew stepped out into the chapel, kneeling before the altar to recite his penance. The familiar weight of the rosary beads in his fingers provided an anchor as his mind wrestled with Father Callahan's words.
Transformation. Renewal. A clean heart and a right spirit.
In his past life, he had tried to save Hell's Kitchen through violence, through fear, through the imposition of his own moral code. It had led to corruption, possession, death. The road to hell truly was paved with good intentions.
He could be better—wiser, more patient, more strategic. He could use the law as it was meant to be used.
He could support his father's efforts to clean up Gotham through legitimate means.
The beads slipped through his fingers as he completed his prayers. Rising from his knees, Matthew felt a calm he hadn't experienced since awakening in that hospital bed three years ago. The path forward wasn't clear, but the burden felt lighter somehow.
As he walked from the chapel, he sensed Father Callahan watching him from the doorway of his office.
"Finding what you're looking for, Matthew?" the priest asked.
Matthew paused, considering the question with all its layers. "I think I'm starting to, Father."
"Good," Father Callahan replied, his voice warm. "Though I suspect your search is just beginning."
With a nod, Matthew continued down the hallway, white cane tapping a rhythm against the stone floor.