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Dear Bruce, 

These last weeks I begin to feel very mortal, which prompts this note to you. Perhaps I'm being paranoid. I hope so. In any case, if you're reading this, then I'm dead, and you figured out that the entry code is... BRUCE. I'm sorry I had to hide this part of my life from you, because this place only exists because of you. Becoming a father made me want to be a better man, and I started asking hard questions about the family business. So here we are. As I write this, you're 12 and a fine, good-hearted boy. So I'm sure you'll be a fine, good-hearted man. But that's all I know. I don't know what happened to me or your mother, or how life has turned out for you. I don't even know how old you are. So I'll resist giving you much fatherly advice. Only this: You can't have both happiness and the truth. You have to choose. I beg of you, my son, please choose happiness. Unless... Unless you feel a calling. A true calling.

—Thomas Wayne's letter to Bruce.