They go further than he's expecting. He realises, as he looks around a place he doesn't recognise at all, that he assumed his future would be in Gotham. How could it not be? Even when he was away for seven years, he was always intending to go back. Even if it was a lifetime later.

But this - he turns on the spot, taking it in. Somewhere with green fields, and trees. Remote. It's evening, and the dusk blurs things in the near-distance to the degree that it's hard to make out a defining feature. This could be anywhere. The Mid West, Canada, England, France. They're outside, on a country lane. It's not cold, not hot. It's just a place.

There is a house, though. It's about twenty feet away, up a gravel drive. The whole place would fit in half of the East Wing of Wayne Manor, but though it's small, it doesn't look unpleasant. It's nicely tended, with a lawn, and flowers. Anyone could live here - obviously, it's not going to be a random person. But if he wasn't expecting to see himself, there'd be nothing about this place he could equate to how he lives now.

He starts up the drive without looking at the ghost. He's not concerned with being rude, and is pretty sure this one won't care either way. Not concerned with how he pulls back as soon as he looks in through the window, either.

It's definitely him. And not even a very old him. But the surprise of it is enough to prompt a question, even though he figures it won't get answered.

'How far in the future do you show me?'

He'd assumed it would be when he was old. Not about - well, what? The guy he's looking at can't be fifty yet. At least, if you only look at his face.