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There was no "I." There was only light and warmth and a kaleidoscopic series of images from across the entirety of time and space. Small fragments of will and memory floated amidst it all, but these were only the raw materials of an "I." Then, "I" started to become. Images grew clearer and more familiar. Faces of loved ones formed in the Aether. "I" was again - well, in a sense. I regained temporary contact with the material world through somebody else's disciplined mind and body.
I was, or rather, she was accompanied by female acolytes and facing an investigation team. The men muttered to one another about the awkwardness of the situation, how none of their training ever prepared them for something like this...
One of the investigators turned and faced me. Her? Us.
I stared down at hands that looked almost like mine but not quite. I brought them up to touch the cold, smooth stones that adorned my neck as I took in my tightly enclosed and dimly lit surroundings. I began to develop an idea of what was happening but found it all rather hard to believe regardless - the police intended to interrogate my spirit through a medium regarding the incident that took my life mere days before.
"Are we, uh... Speaking with the spirit of Gregory Edgeworth? Tell us who shot you."
Who shot me? I couldn't say with confidence. During the moments before I was shot, I had been drifting in and out of consciousness due to panic and lack of oxygen. There were only two people who could possibly have shot me, as far as I knew. The first was the bailiff, who had been raving about how I was stealing his air. The second...
No, it couldn't have been. Miles would never harm anyone, least of all me. He was gentler than most boys, he wouldn't even play rough with friends, let alone fire a gun in an elevator...
My hazy memories swirled, coming together and then falling apart again. The bailiff had pulled a gun from a holster on his belt. It must have been him. But, wait - I had seen hands, little hands, pull the gun away from him. Hadn't I?
I then remembered Miles' gasping pleas for the bailiff not to hurt me. In his efforts to protect me, had my own son killed me?
I couldn't say for certain. Being dead didn't make me omniscient. It wasn't impossible that Miles had shot me by accident, but one thing was for certain - I wouldn't, I couldn't allow my son to bear that cross. He was already so hard on himself. Once, a teacher of his had called me to tell me he was crying because he couldn't fold a paper crane, as if anyone would ever hold such a thing against him. Any time he got less than a perfect score on a project or a test, he would spend the weeks after that so engrossed in his studies that I would find him asleep in his workbooks some nights. As soon as he was old enough to remotely understand what death was, he blamed himself for how Rachel lost her life while giving him his own, no matter how much I assured him it wasn't his fault. Such a heavy conscience, and all before he had even reached ten years old. He'd surely find a way to blame himself for my death at some point, too, whether he truly had anything to do with it or not. What kind of father would I be to even suggest pointing a finger at such a scrupulous child? In any case, it had been Yanni who brandished a weapon to begin with...
"I am Gregory Edgeworth... I have been killed...The one who shot me... was the bailiff... Yanni Yogi." The voice that came out was a distorted version of what my own had sounded like.
The investigators wrote in their books and recorded what they heard onto a cassette. The chilly, candle-lit room that the woman who conducted my consciousness stood in seemed to distort, and a blue-white glow crept into the corners of my vision. The woman channeling me was readying herself to send me back to the source. I was aware of her exhaustion by way of my conduction through her body - that is, I felt what she felt. Her knees wobbled and she swayed on her feet. I dug my will into hers as long as she could bear it, as there was still something I wanted to ask.
"Is Miles all right? How is Miles doing?" I pushed these shaky words through the medium's mouth and hoped she would allow me to stay long enough to get a satisfactory answer. Of course, I knew Miles was surely in pain from losing me. That was a given, but I had other concerns. It was likely enough that he suffered a long-term illness or injury from suffocating in that elevator for so long. It was likelier still that he was in the less-than-trustworthy hands of the foster care system. He was surely having a hard time, but the scenario wasn't necessarily the worst case. There was nothing I could do about his situation, whatever it was, but I wanted to know.
"Your little boy? He's still recuperating in the hospital, but he'll be fine. There were some concerns at first about who would take care of him since you were his last living relative, but he has a place to go. Prosecutor Von Karma is going to take him in, as a gesture of good will to you. He was shocked to hear that you'd gotten shot and left your child an orphan just after he faced you in court. It's unconventional, but it's also quite the stroke of luck. Your boy will live in a nice house, he'll get the finest education, I'm sure..."
The room faded into nacreous smoke and the investigator's voice petered out. Perhaps he had said more, perhaps he hadn't - I was no longer there to hear it either way, thanks to the acolytes severing my spirit from the mystic's body and banishing me from the chamber. They must have seen the toll my sustained possession was taking on her and acted to keep her safe. I now looked down upon that tiny room and the people in it from high above. That room was but one of many scenes within my field of vision as I floated between the source of all life and the veiled version of the physical realm that I was capable of perceiving, but not touching.
Von Karma. A worse influence for my dear son didn't exist. Now, he was to become the most influential figure in his life and there was nothing I could do. As a spirit, I had the option of watching over Miles, but I would only be able to watch. I longed to return to the surrender of my will and the near-complete merging of my consciousness with the flow of time itself, but once I learned that Miles was to be under Von Karma's wing, I could not shake the feeling that such detachment would be irresponsible and uncaring. If all I could do for him was watch over him for a time, I would do so, no matter how painful or futile it would be.
Miles had a nightmare the first night he slept under Von Karma's roof, after he was discharged from the hospital. I watched as he woke with a start and listened as he called out for me. He turned chalk white and broke down into unrestrained sobs once he looked around the room and remembered where he was, and all that had transpired. As much as I wished to, I could not sit on the side of his bed and rub his back until he returned to sleep as I would do for him before. I would never be able to comfort or protect him again, even though he needed my comfort and protection now more than ever. I had devoted my life to justice, but there was nothing even resembling such a concept within this state of affairs.
I heard the sound of feet stomping down the hallway up to the bedroom door, and so did Miles, whose eyes widened in anticipation. Instead of comfort, he was met with a backhanded slap across the face, augmented by Von Karma's garish rings. The stones set into those rings scratched Miles' cheek, but neither he nor Von Karma bothered to wipe the blood away. Von Karma admonished Miles for making noise so late at night, and for causing such a fuss over such a "pathetic" reason as a nightmare. I listened to my son's hushed apology. When Von Karma left the room again, I watched my son curl back up under the covers and clutch his pillow to his chest as he wept silently, occasionally whimpering and begging me to come back, to come take him away.
Miles, believe me, if I could do that without killing you, I would...
When I was still alive, Miles had always been nervous, shy, and moody to some degree, but his curiosity and his compassion would usually shine through his insecurities. Not anymore. Day by day, he grew less willing to approach his peers. There was one who would send him a letter every week; Phoenix, the impulsive yet loyal boy that Miles had once been so close with. Miles simply let those letters pile up on his desk. He retained his interest in law, but when I watched him read, his eyes lacked the sparkle that would once fill them any time he had a book in front of him. Nearly all his energy, which he had already lost so much of due to the trauma he experienced, was now devoted to avoiding Von Karma's anger. He monitored the veteran prosecutor's moods and forced himself to behave as though he were on the same page as him at all times. When Von Karma spoke to him, he would respond with an almost mechanical caution, making sure he never showed any signs of disagreement even on the most trivial of matters. He had always been hesitant to ask me for much, but he never asked Von Karma for anything at all. I'd expected him to have a smaller appetite when he was still at the height of his grief, but even after that time period passed, he continued to eat very little, especially if others were present.
As I had feared, the lack of oxygen in the elevator did have a lasting effect on him. His circulation had weakened, and he would easily lose balance - sometimes even consciousness. When Von Karma witnessed my son exhibiting these symptoms, he would reprimand him. If it happened in public, he would ask Miles why he was so determined to embarrass him and Franziska - to make their family appear anything less than perfect. If it happened at home, he would accuse him of feigning illness for sympathy and remind him with a snap of his fingers that he would get none. He had noticed the claustrophobia Miles had developed after the incident in the elevator - how Miles would shiver and become short of breath in small spaces. He would confine Miles to closets as punishment for any misstep, any questioning of his "perfect" authority, or any failure on his behalf to represent Von Karma as anything other than a perfect being with a perfect household, whatever that meant.
Over time, Miles fell into a pattern of simply staying out of Von Karma's sight unless he was certain he could please that self-important man, or unless his absence would get him into trouble. Von Karma took every opportunity he could to remind Miles that he was only allowed to live under his roof because of the potential he demonstrated, and that if he failed to continue demonstrating that potential, he would be sent to an orphanage. He would tell Miles that, if that should happen, he would simply age out without being adopted because "people want babies, not sulky pre-teens" and end up amounting to nothing due to lack of guidance. "Do you want to amount to nothing, Edgeworth?" He would ask, referring to him by his last name to emphasize his status as an outsider rather than a family member. Miles would always shake his lowered head and say "No, sir." These were some of the only times I heard any heartfelt emotion in Miles' voice anymore. The desire to make something of himself was genuine and intrinsic to Miles. Von Karma manipulated that desire by ensuring that my son believed he would stagnate without his guidance. If this kept up, the ambition that fueled Miles' desire to make an impact on the world around him would surely putrefy into an unfocused and cynical desperation to prove himself to everyone and no one.
I had died in front of my son, and now, I was watching him die in his own way. I wished to rip apart the veil between the physical and spiritual world - not so I could take control of my now-rotting body and somehow force myself to "live" again, but rather so I could find some way to fill Miles with the love I still felt for him and remind him that he was worthy regardless of whether he lived up to Von Karma's standards or not. Would he ever believe such things again? I could only hope that he would meet a living person who could show him, and that he would allow them into his heart - failing that, perhaps there was some way he could demonstrate his worth to himself through a personal accomplishment. Neither seemed likely to happen anytime soon, given how withdrawn Miles had become, and how he no longer acted for himself but rather to keep Von Karma's criticisms at bay.
After years of powerless observation, I'd had enough. I hated to abandon my dear Miles again, but I had to have faith that he would break away and find his way back to himself sooner or later. As I allowed my consciousness to be absorbed back into that expanse of light and color with no beginning and no end, I placed that consciousness in front of my son and looked at his face. I knew he couldn't see me, but if there was any chance that I could communicate my thoughts to him - any way I could tell him how loved he still was - I would try it. I felt the warmth of the source take me piece by piece as I stared into his dull, gray-green eyes. Just before my vision filled with waves of stars, with sequences of creatures emerging from water and transforming countless times, and with fire blossoming and dying out in cycles, I briefly saw the color of those eyes lighten somewhat with tears.
Before I could learn the cause of those tears, there was once again no "I."