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Gregory hadn’t been one who dwelled too much on the subject of the afterlife.
He wished he had been while he had been alive.
Though it wasn’t as if books and studies could explain what it meant being dead. They said that your life would flash before you in your final moments. There were no flashes when he died. He was asleep, for goodness’s sake, and while it was a painless death—which he supposed was something he could be grateful for compared to other grotesque manners of death—he died believing it was his own son who accidentally ended his life.
That alone was enough to send a chill all over his— body? Soul? Could the dead even experience such? Gregory didn’t know anymore.
Which was why when he was summoned and asked of his demise, he didn’t hesitate to give a name. Gregory was the kind of person who lied as little as possible, but telling the truth that time was akin to sacrificing his own son. He used to fight for the truth, but between that and Miles, it wasn’t a question at all.
Gregory ruined an innocent man’s life, and if it was up to him, he would walk the path to Hell on his own. But it wasn’t up to him, because for all the debate of Heaven and Hell and where a person should end up after death, the afterlife was simply a bleak and winding road of nothingness where he would walk forever with the sins he committed as one of the dead.
Ironic.
A part of Gregory wished he would be summoned for the last time. If only to know what happened to Miles. Was his son brought to distant relatives that he and his wife might have? In Gregory’s opinion, it was only marginally better than letting Miles get lost in the system. How old was he now? Was he still that earnest bright boy that wished to be like him? Would Miles grow up to be the defense attorney that Gregory had been?
The concept of time didn’t exist in this place. And maybe there was relief in not knowing what happened to Miles; not knowing and letting the tremendous guilt and what-ifs eat Gregory within were parts of the punishment he deserved. Gregory’s sole wish since he died was that Miles would be left in safe and caring hands. Miles would be scarred with childhood trauma, and while Gregory couldn’t erase that, he fervently hoped that the good memories of Mile’s childhood would trump that nightmarish phase of his life.
Gregory wasn’t a religious man in life and in death, but he would occasionally find himself in supplication for at least a glimpse, a final chance to see Miles once more. Praying, Gregory supposed, said a lot about his hypocrisy.
And yet…
Gregory opened his eyes, and the next thing he knew, it was no longer the void that surrounded him.
The first thing he registered was that he was seeing colors.
The variation other than black was a shock to his eyes that it took him a moment to find his footing, figuratively and literally. The next thing that occurred to him was that he could touch the ground and was in fact standing in one as opposed to floating as he came to acknowledge as a spirit.
Did someone summon him again? The sensation was different this time, however. It was different from the feel of wearing someone, for the lack of a better word. He touched his person and felt the fabric of the old suit he died in.
Huh.
Gregory breathed the fresh air, willing himself to calm down despite the million racing thoughts he has. He could simply stay on one spot, but he wouldn’t find answers this way. This was… new.
Or maybe not. He cocked his head and surveyed his surroundings. Was this Paradise? Though if it was he didn’t think he deserved to be walking on one.
Hell, then. They said it could be deceptive, couldn’t it? Not the literal fiery place many depicted. But who were they anyway?
A few meters walk led him to people, strangers who barely spared him a glance. Could they see him? Were they even real?
Gregory slumped down to a nearby bench, removing his hat before burying his head in his palms. He wasn’t ready for this. To be fair, who would be?
He was startled by a bark and the approaching hasty steps that followed. He looked up to find a golden retriever that stopped by his feet and let out a short, happy bark at Gregory and wagged its tail expectantly. Hesitantly, Gregory reached for the dog and scratched behind its ears which the dog liked very much. Well, that answered whether he could be seen and could be touched in return.
“Orwell!”
The dog, Orwell, apparently, perked up at the voice, and without removing himself from Gregory’s fingers, yapped at the incoming man and…
Oh.
Gregory was sure it was simply the trick of the light and the longing that he has been feeling, though he still had to fight down the welling in his chest. He didn’t mean to, but given the newcomer’s similarity in the shade and the style of the hair to Miles, he was assaulted with the memory of his boy.
“I’m sorry. I hope my dog hasn’t been—are you alright, sir?”
“Not really,” Gregory admitted with a slight smile, waving a hand apologetically at his abrupt reply. “Sorry. I’ll be fine, and, no, it’s not because of your dog. Orwell, is it?”
He scratched Orwell’s chin next. He recalled Miles bringing home an abandoned dog once and how his son meekly asked for permission to adopt it. Somehow, despite not being able to refuse Miles anything he wanted, his boy was stiff and seemed afraid of asking him of anything.
Gregory wondered if Pess was together with Miles. That way, Miles would still have a companion for the rest of his childhood. Gregory loved Pess too, and he hoped that the last connection of him with Miles remained unsevered.
“Yes, Orwell,” the man answered carefully, and Gregory could detect a hint of strain. “I am not sure what made him run off like that. He didn’t bother you, did he?” he asked quietly.
“Oh, no. Quite the contrary, I think,” Gregory said genially. It was odd, though gratifying to finally talk normally to someone that wasn’t in the same context as prior. He patted Orwell’s head before leaning back. “Sorry. I won’t take more of you and Orwell’s time.” He paused and considered for a moment before asking, “This might sound odd, but may I ask what is this place?”
Only when Gregory finally met the man’s eyes did he notice that he also bore the same eyes as Miles; stern and serious behind a pair of glasses. If his boy grew older, he would greatly resemble this man.
Gregory pushed down an irrational, hopeful thought. It was impossible to be Miles, but then again Gregory was an actual walking and talking ghost presently. What was even impossible if he couldn’t discern what was real or not?
The man frowned slightly at the inquiry though elected to reply. “You are in People Park.” His frown deepened with a tinge of concern. “Are you lost?”
He was, in a way, Gregory supposed. He didn’t know of this People Park. “I believe so,” he said honestly. “No matter. I don’t know how I came to be here, but I think I can find my way back.” Hopefully.
“Pardon me, but if I may, do you have a phone with you that contains a number that we can contact in case of emergency?” The man looked conflicted for a moment before deciding to explain, “If you do not remember coming here, it is rather alarming. If you don’t mind me asking, do you remember this happening to you before?”
It clicked to Gregory that the man was concerned whether the situation was indicative of a memory lapse that could lead to a more worrying symptom. Though uncalled for Gregory was touched at the concern, nonetheless.
“This is the first time,” he said, smiling. “But I can assure you that this is not a sign of Alzheimer's,” he clarified firmly. Gregory glanced upwards at the skies that he didn’t expect to see once more. “However, I must confess that it is like seeing things for the first time again. Will you kindly let this old man sit here and take everything in first?”
The stranger nodded vaguely, and Gregory noted that he looked torn between leaving and staying. Orwell didn’t seem like he was eager to move, and that turned out to be the deciding factor.
“I am waiting for someone. Do you mind if I wait here with you?”
Gregory didn’t mind the company. Besides, it seemed like the man didn’t want to let him out of his sight if he could. Quite stubborn and a worrywart, this man, despite his stoic demeanor that didn’t make the traits obvious.
Like Miles, he thought fondly.
“I don’t see any problem.”
“Excuse the intrusion then,” he heard the man say before occupying the free space beside him.
Gregory wasn’t unaware of the furtive glances thrown his way and the way the stranger’s fingers were typing on his phone, causing him to catch a glint of a silver band on his ring finger. He didn’t know this person, but Gregory couldn’t help but be amused at the man’s actions so far. It was probably a force of habit when he observed the man and took note of the conclusion he could derive.
He must be in his late thirties to early forties, could be older or as old as Gregory—when he died, at least. Married. His hair wasn’t graying like his, though, likely a natural hue or dyed. Gregory honestly thought that he would be assailed with questions to test his mental state, except the man fell quiet, and if Gregory was to hazard a guess, equally studying him in turn.
When their similar, surreptitious scrutinizing gazes met—quite comically if Gregory might add—the man easily covered his reaction by curtly asking, “Is there something wrong?”
Gregory was nothing but quick on his feet, smoothly replying, “Forgive me. You remind me of someone.” He wasn’t lying, though. The stranger reminded him of his nine-year-old son. “Have we met before?”
The man blinked his momentary surprise. “No, I don’t think so.” He looked away distantly, thoughtful. “I’m not sure though. I might have seen you in passing in the courthouse before.”
Gregory perked up. “You’re an attorney then?”
The stranger seemed to have considered replying honestly. He shook his head. “No. Prosecutor, actually.”
“Truly? Ah, the opposition then.” Gregory chuckled good-naturedly.
“You are a defense attorney?”
“I’ve been one before for quite some time.” Gregory hummed noncommittally. He didn’t have several pleasant encounters with prosecutors, though the last one he faced was someone he couldn’t forget. “How is von Karma?”
The prosecutor seemed to find the question odd. “She has been overseas for quite a while now,” he replied. “You’ve faced her before?”
She? “I’m sorry, what do you mean?”
“I’m asking if you faced Franziska von Karma in court before,” the man repeated calmly, though Gregory wasn’t fooled by the critical eye on him.
“My mistake. I meant Manfred von Karma.”
“... You don’t know?” the prosecutor said, his tone bordering incredulous. “Manfred von Karma was arrested twelve years ago.”
Gregory’s eyes widened. Twelve years ago? Von Karma? Alright, so the man has dubious methods in court which Gregory himself exposed in their last face-off. It was only one of the possibly many. But an arrest? For what?
His companion must have seen his confusion, continuing, “He was the proven guilty party of the DL-6 incident where a defense attorney was...”
“...shot in an elevator of the courthouse,” Gregory finished, eyes unfocused at the spot on the ground. “They said it was the bailiff,” he said, almost inaudible.
“No. It wasn’t Yanni Yogi. His innocence was proven a bit too late, when Yanni Yogi himself had truly committed a heinous crime fifteen years later since the incident, but his name was cleared of the DL-6 incident before the case reached its statute of limitations,” the man said. “To my understanding, it was all over the news. Were you not in the country at that time?” he asked, his voice taking an uncharacteristic gentleness.
“No,” Gregory said. He hadn’t been with the living. He swallowed past the lump on his throat. He was on the verge of breaking down in front of this man if not for the semblance of propriety that he retained. Gods, what was he saying? Propriety? It was laughable for a ghost. “I—I didn’t hear.”
Gregory wondered if he could still salvage the face of his. He was thankful for the same spectacles that sat on his nose. If his voice and hands were shaking, his companion politely looked away.
“What happened… after? I… I heard that there was a boy. Did they—What happened to him?”
“He was adopted by von Karma,” the man replied, and somehow, he no longer sounded as if he was reading off of a file. “Raised by him to be a prosecutor. He had been a… father figure and a mentor to him. It might not be in the manner that it should be, but it was enough where it counted,” he whispered.
Gregory looked—deeply looked, and oh. He hadn’t been wrong, had he?
“I have a question,” he began, struggling to proceed, “but can you pretend not to be surprised?” Gregory requested; it felt pertinent that he did. “What year is it now?”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed the man’s—Miles’ face. “It’s the spring of 2029.”
Odd that Gregory's response to the revelation was an immense feeling of relief. Perhaps relief that it was two decades ago for Miles, a horrible nightmare that it had been.
Miles was alright, wasn’t he? That was all that mattered to Gregory. He must have a family of his own now, people he went home to and made him happy.
Gregory mustered the courage to face his now thirty-six-year-old son—he was no longer a boy that he worried for; Miles was a strong, self-made man and Gregory swelled with both pride and dismay that he became who he was today without his father—and could practically hear the gears turning in his head as his eyes softened and widened at Gregory.
Miles sucked in a breath. “Are you—”
“Papa!”
Seemingly jolted out of their trance-like bubble, Gregory and Miles looked away from each other to find a beaming teenage girl waving at them.
Orwell barked at the girl excitedly, and Gregory watched as she ran towards them with her blue cape flowing behind her.
“We’ve been looking for you,” the girl said, pouting. “Daddy said you went ahead before us, but I couldn’t find you.”
Miles cleared his throat, composing himself before smiling at the girl. “Yes, I arrived here earlier,” he said. “I walked Orwell first and...” He turned to his side. The disbelief Gregory saw in him a minute ago wasn’t visible anymore. He regarded Gregory as a stranger again, and not as a ghost of the past that he should be. “Orwell led me to mister—sorry, I don’t think we got each other’s name.”
“Greg,” Gregory said, half-hoping that Miles would recognize it.
He didn’t.
“Miles Edgeworth, and this is my daughter, Trucy.” Trucy peered at Gregory and stared at him. Gregory got an inexplicable feeling that she was observing him intently and curiously.
He wondered if she could see him near tears. This girl was his granddaughter, Miles said, and though she bore no obvious physical trait that she might have inherited from Miles, Gregory could feel a wash of protectiveness for her already.
When he smiled at her, Trucy grinned in return.
“We must be on our way,” Miles said abruptly. For a second, Gregory thought he saw a flash of regret. Miles extended a hand. “It was nice meeting you… Greg.”
The solid handshake and Trucy’s cheerful wave of goodbye were over too quickly, and Gregory was met with an onslaught of fear once Miles’ back was on him. Miles was walking away with his daughter. Gregory’s son was walking away without even recognizing his father, his father who died more than two decades ago.
Gregory was no longer a part of Miles’ life because Miles already moved on long ago from his passing.
It was rather selfish of him to expect anything else.
It was in poor taste that he felt a surge of hope when Miles paused on his step to turn back and hand Gregory a calling card.
“I know you said that your situation is not a cause of alarm, but I’d rather you have this anyway if you need someone to contact for health emergencies.” Miles nodded. His conflicted expression clued Gregory in that Miles didn’t usually do this to any stranger he randomly met. “Take care of yourself, Greg.”
Gregory thumbed the business card reverently. Miles Edgeworth, Chief Prosecutor, and an office number under it, together with the address of the Prosecutor's Office.
He couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. Chief Prosecutor of Los Angeles. Of course, Miles would be at that position at an age younger than his predecessors. His diligence and hard work to achieve only the highest of marks didn’t appear to have changed.
Gregory stared at the direction Miles and Trucy vanished to, and he wondered what he would find at the end.
He wondered, too, how long he was allowed to be here. Would it be enough to get more glimpse of the man Miles became? Would it be too much to ask of that?
Gregory walked the same trail Miles and Trucy had taken, and he was led to a spot in a grassy knoll where a large picnic mat was laid out with quite a number of people that Gregory was about to dismiss with a pang of envy until he noticed that two of those people happened to be Miles and Trucy, with Orwell sitting dutifully next to a Doberman that has a large bird perched on its head.
This was… this was Miles’ family.
Gregory could count a total of ten people all in all. Friends and colleagues included, he surmised. Most of the females were significantly younger than Miles and appeared closer to Trucy’s age. The one old enough appeared to be close to his son though not overtly so that they seemed close good friends instead.
There were two men that Gregory faintly recognized as Miles’ childhood friends who he met at a sleepover once. One was the kid with a striking orange hair that Miles told him had a penchant for getting into trouble more often than not, and the other man with a distinctive spiky hair who he recalled Miles favored greatly over the other.
When Gregory noticed the latter leaning inconspicuously closer to Miles and slipped his hand to entwine with his son’s, their matching rings faintly gleaming, it was as if the final missing puzzle was put in place.
Phoenix. That was that boy’s name, wasn’t it? Gregory couldn’t express how glad he was that Miles was able to hold on to this person in spite of what Miles had been through. They make a wonderful pair, Gregory believed. He fondly watched as Trucy entertained her audience with impressive magic tricks. Trucy’s cheerfulness and her big, wide smile were infectious even at this distance.
Gregory's chest ached as if he was going to burst with emotions that were threatening to spill out of him. He could walk over there within a few strides and tell who he was, and yet remaining at his current spot was the right thing to do. Painful but right.
He couldn’t possibly mar this perfect picture Miles created for himself.
“You’re very kind,” said a gentle voice from his left. Her presence, for some reason, didn’t startle Gregory one bit. “Not everyone is given the same chance, and I admit that if I was the one in your position, I wouldn’t hesitate to walk over to him and hug him tight. Miles needed that, and more.”
“And he has people now who will shower him with what we could no longer give,” Gregory told the woman. “Have you been watching him?”
“Ever since,” the woman said, smiling, the wind blowing softly a wisp of the gray hair that Miles got from her. “Our lad grew up into a fine man. You did well, Gregory.”
“I barely did anything.”
She tilted her head delicately. “I don’t know about that. You had been there when it mattered,” she said. “Trust me, I know.”
Gregory went silent. If she saw something that Gregory didn’t, then he would take her word for it. She had always been better in that aspect compared to him.
She sidled closer to him, curling around his arm and pressing to his side. She laid her head on his shoulder as if they were just as any of the couples enjoying the pleasant weather in the park.
“I’ve missed you,” Gregory said, turning his eyes from Miles to gingerly lay a kiss on top of her head. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”
“You got what you wanted in the end,” she said. “The wait is worth it.”
It was, Gregory supposed. All that seemingly unending nothingness and the gnawing regrets were let go once he saw the happiness Miles got for himself.
Miles was in safe and caring hands now.
When she took his hand and led him somewhere both unknown and familiar to Gregory, he eagerly followed, looking back briefly for one last glance.
Gregory left, smiling amidst his farewell.
Miles turned and thought he heard a voice that uttered his name.
“Hey, you okay?” Phoenix asked when Miles’ stare lingered at the secluded area of the park where he had been hours ago.
“I thought I heard something.” Miles shook his head, smiling privately at Phoenix’s little frown of concern. “It’s nothing.”
It was just the wind after all.
fin