Chapter Text
“Have you considered what we discussed last session?”
While Miles had been expecting this particular question to be brought up during the last fifteen minutes of his therapy session, it doesn’t mean he dreads answering it any less. He shifts in his seat on the couch awkwardly, averting his eyes from Dr. Lofte.
Ever since he had left that note at the Prosecutor's Office and convinced himself not to go through with choosing death, Miles had been jumping from hotel to hotel in Europe. He never strays too far from his therapist’s office, however.
Dr. Lofte is an exceptional therapist. Yes, it may have taken a few months for Miles to open up, and yes, there may have been sessions where he had left early out of frustration, but slowly and surely, he realized how desperately he needed someone to listen to him. Against all odds, Miles started to feel better as he began his treatment.
Of course, these things take time, so not everything is automatically solved. But what matters is that it’s a start.
“Miles?” She asks, attracting his attention. She has a patient, kind look on her face, and yet Miles is fearful of answering.
“I’m…afraid I am not ready to return,” he eventually says. He stares at the floor of her office, wishing for the time remaining to speed up. I am unsure if I can face them all right now.
And perhaps there is one person in particular he is apprehensive about facing.
Mismatching blue-brown eyes flash in his mind, and guilt settles in his stomach like a stone sinking in water.
“I’ve noticed that you do that every time we talk about certain topics.”
Miles looks back at her. “Do what, exactly?”
Dr. Lofte simply points at him, and he follows her gaze to where he’s clutching his right hand, stroking the scar he had gotten about a year ago. He hadn’t even noticed he was doing that.
Miles swallows, eyes immediately switching to the clock. They still have time left.
“Miles,” Dr. Lofte starts, gently. “You’ve never mentioned how you got that scar on your hand. Would you like to talk about it? I don’t want to push you, but it’s obvious there’s something bothering you.”
He’s never forgiven himself for what he did that night, the night before Phoenix Wright won his first case against him. And he probably never will. He hadn’t realized how corrupted and brainwashed he had been at the time, and the mere memory makes him feel ill.
Even now, his heart aches for all those memories he had burned away.
Still, he’s different now. Or at least, becoming different. He is not the same man he was when he burned those letters, or even when he had left. He no longer has this warped version of wounded pride—just the remainder of the wounds themselves.
He knows logically he should talk about it. And yet, knowing that does not make the words easier to say.
Miles swallows again, trying to get rid of the lump forming in his throat. “Do you recall…the man who had defended me?” The man who saved me, he doesn’t add.
Dr. Lofte nods, eyes softening in a certain way and twinkling as if she knows something he doesn’t. “Your childhood friend, right? Phoenix?”
His chest burns at the name. “Y-Yes. That is his name. Before he defended me, I…” He stops. “You know how I treated him. How horrible I was.” He looks down and isn’t too surprised that he sees his thumb stroking scarred skin yet again. “And how he would have been put away for a crime he didn’t commit had he not won against me during our first trial together.”
Dr. Lofte stares at him with that same kind, patient look.
I don’t deserve your patience nor your kindness.
He squeezes his eyes shut and tells her exactly what he did. He doesn’t spare a single detail, even though reliving the memory makes him feel queasy. Miles tells her every emotion he felt, every ounce of betrayal that was running through him, and how mortified he was when he found out Phoenix was innocent after all.
“I…simply felt disgusted. And that particular feeling became more and more unbearable every single moment he decided to show kindness to me. Even though I treated him terribly, he still…” He inhales a shaky breath. “He still wanted to help me. Even after every despicable thing I did.”
Dr. Lofte levels him with a look—a look he often receives when he’s caught talking negatively about himself. He averts his gaze and sighs. “Apologies. I simply mean…” He stares off into space, not able to help the slight ache in his heart. “He continued to see the best in me, even when he had every reason not to do so.”
She stares at him, intently listening. “He sounds like a good man.”
A bittersweet smile forms on his face. Even now, he can’t help but feel affection for the man, which of course mixes with the guilt. He couldn’t feel any differently for the man if he tried.
“He is.”
Dr. Lofte gives a sympathetic look. “Do you miss him?”
It’s a simple question with a complicated answer. Of course I do, he wants to say, to scream from the top of his lungs. He misses Phoenix Wright more than anything in the world, but…he doesn’t deserve him. Doesn’t deserve the rays of sunlight he shines onto his dark life, doesn’t deserve his radiant smiles. Doesn’t deserve his kindness.
And yet, Miles still yearns. Still yearns to go back, to see Phoenix Wright whether he deserves to or not.
He looks back at Dr. Lofte, voice wavering slightly when he answers. “More than anything.”
She gives a melancholy-tinged smile. “Are you afraid of seeing him because of how you left things?”
Miles looks at the clock, swallowing when he realizes there’s still time. The urge to run away from things that make him feel overwhelmed has never truly gone away, and most likely never will. At least not completely.
“Terrified,” he confesses, staring at her with wide eyes and feeling as though he were a small child.
Dr. Lofte leans forward in her seat—something she tends to do when she’s about to tell him something he usually doesn’t want to hear. He braces himself.
“Miles,” she begins, “as your therapist, it’s not my job to tell you what to do.”
Could have fooled me. “But?”
“But,” she continues, “it is my job to help you explore your options. And then it will be up to you to ultimately pick one. As far as I can tell, there’s two main options you have: to stay here, or to go back.”
Fear spikes up in his heart. “But I—”
“I know you’re not ready to go back, and I understand. Miles, when you first came into my office, you were in a critical unstable state of mind. After what you went through, after what you discovered, anyone would be. But I need you to know how far you’ve come and how proud I am of you.”
He shifts in his seat, glancing down. It’s quite funny, really, how he used to thrive on compliments. Crave them, because he was so deprived of them from his mentor. But that egotistical mask he had put on which would receive praise from others—that wasn’t truly him. When he found out the truth about his father’s death, the truth about von Karma, the mask was destroyed beyond repair, leaving his true self. His true, raw, broken identity.
So, to have that version of himself be complimented in such a way—an earnest way—almost makes him want to crawl out of his skin.
“That being said, it’s clear that you’re not completely happy here, and that you feel guilty because of the way you left.” Dr. Lofte tilts her head, looking thoughtful. “Would it be possible to let him know?”
He attempts to play dumb, hoping it will prolong the time he would have to answer the question. “Who are you referring to?”
She gives a gentle smile to him, while also raising a brow. “Phoenix Wright.”
The very thought makes ice flood into his veins momentarily. “I…I cannot,” Miles says, lamely.
“Why not?”
Because I don’t know how he’d react. Because I don’t know if he’d even be happy that I’m alive. Because I’m afraid.
“I—I wouldn’t even know what to say.” He mumbles lowly, the excuse sounding pathetic even to his own ears.
There’s a moment of silence as his therapist seems to be contemplating something. “What if you wrote it out? In a letter?” There must be some sort of panic in his eyes as Dr. Lofte lifts a calming hand to say, “Not to send. But just to get it out.”
Miles thinks about it. Thinks about all the letters Phoenix had sent him, the ones he had burned away. The letters that he held so near and dear to his heart for the longest time, only to destroy them out of his own arrogance and pride. The letters that he unintentionally ended up memorizing because he read them so many times. The letters he would recite in his head while he was away doing specific duties in order to calm himself, unable to read them in that moment.
Writing a letter to him wouldn’t be such a terrible idea, he thinks to himself. After all, he wrote to me numerous times.
Suddenly, an idea strikes him.
Of course.
It wouldn’t absolve him of all his wrongdoings, but maybe he could make at least one thing right. Correct one thing out of his countless misdeeds. A small step forward in his grueling trek to becoming a better man.
“Actually,” Miles begins, a bit hesitant. “A thought just occurred to me. I would like to know what you think about this…”
After Miles received Dr. Lofte’s approval of his plan, the two of them wrapped up the session, agreeing that he would update her on how it all went. Miles returned home—that is to say, the hotel he has been staying at for months—and poured himself a glass of wine, sitting down to gather his thoughts.
He’s still there currently, blank papers scattered all over his desk, one of his favorite pens lying beside them. Miles is aware that all he needs to do is take hold of the pen and begin writing, but something like fear chokes him.
Yes, he has all of those letters memorized, word for word. But part of him feels like he doesn’t deserve it—doesn’t deserve to even recall those specific letters, especially not after what he did to them.
He wants to avoid it. He wants to run away from the reality of the situation, to simply toss it aside to never deal with it again.
But I can’t.
He owes Phoenix that much, at least.
Realizing that he’s been rubbing absentmindedly at his scar, Miles stops at once. He stares at the faintly discolored skin.
The phantoms of my past will not simply go away until I’ve dealt with them head-on.
Swallowing the last bit of cowardice, Miles picks up the pen and begins to write.
Dear Miles,
How are you doing? I know you had to leave pretty quick, but I hope everything’s okay…
Miles continues rewriting the letter and is mildly surprised at how much he remembers. Yes, he was aware that he recalls quite a bit, but the fact he remembers every crossed-out word, every grammatical error, every spelling mistake—makes it clear to him that these letters were near and dear to his heart as a child, and perhaps even more so now that the originals had been destroyed.
He feels an ache in his chest at the thought—the reminder of what he did. Dr. Lofte had told him that endlessly blaming himself and remaining stuck in the past would not help him. All he can do is move on and attempt to be better. To become better.
Miles finishes the letter, looking at the final product. It in no way can truly replace the original, nor can it absolve him of all the pain he’s caused, but it’s a start. A beginning.
He opens his desk drawer underneath to reveal the red signal samurai keychain. Miles had made sure to bring it with him—couldn’t imagine leaving it behind, even if he had gone through with his original plan.
He stares intently at the red, cheap plastic that is slightly damaged due to the fire he had thrown it into that night. While he had injured himself in order to retrieve it, even with the pain he had felt for many days after it had happened, Miles was only able to think one thing.
That it was worth it. That he’d take the pain in order to preserve the memories of his childhood, of his dearest friend.
Miles closes the drawer after a moment and pulls out another piece of paper to continue his task.
He has a lot to make up for, after all.
Dear Phoenix,
Truthfully, I cannot accurately describe how long I stared at these particular words, at your question. Asking one how they are doing is such a customary act, and yet, I fear most people ask out of habit rather than out of true concern for one’s well-being. If you were nothing but a stranger to me, I’d be inclined to respond as though I’m doing well, even if that were not the truth.
However, you are not a stranger. Far from it. I’m able to tell that for all your life, you have cared deeply for others. Your compassion for someone who may be a mere stranger to you knows no bounds—it’s as wide and expansive as the ocean, seemingly never-ending. If you were to ask someone how they were doing, you would desire for them to tell the truth, even in the event the truth is less than pretty—especially then, and if they were not doing well, you’d do everything in your power to assist them.
Perhaps I’m deflecting. I am aware of that. But perhaps I simply don’t know the answer to your particular inquiry.
I am not the man you remember. I am not holding myself and my pride above all things, I am not the cruel man who almost cost you and Maya Fey your lives, I am not the man who left the country out of cowardice. I am still paying for such things, however. I’m afraid that will not change for a long time.
Nevertheless, after I moved to Europe, I began to seek out help. I am becoming aware of how brainwashed and unjust I was, and I hope that with the help of my therapist, I can one day return and see you once more. Once I’m a man who is worthy of your kindness, a man worthy of your trust, a man worthy of your friendship. Once I’m a better man.
And maybe that is my answer to you. I am doing better. I am improving day after day, with the help of Dr. Lofte and the memories of how you aided me during my time of need. I’m not fully healed, and perhaps I never truly will be, but it is a beginning, a start.
I promise you, Phoenix Wright. The next time I see you, I will be a man worth knowing.
Sincerely,
Miles Edgeworth
One would assume that since the murder of his father was solved and Miles is no longer under the impression that he was the true culprit, this must mean the nightmares have stopped. However, the mind is an enigma that truly cannot be pinned down—dreams and nightmares often defy logic.
So, while Miles wishes it were not true, he still has those signature nightmares from time to time.
This is one of those times.
Miles wakes up gasping for air, sitting up on his bed abruptly. Sweat clings to his forehead while his pajamas stick to his skin in an unpleasant way. He’s breathing heavily and quickly, trying to calm his nerves. He takes a deep breath. Closing his eyes, he starts to recite the string of words his therapist helped him form in times like these.
My name is Miles Edgeworth. The year is 2018 and I am currently in my hotel room, in no danger. I am safe.
He takes deep breaths. In and out, in and out.
I am not the one who killed my father. I am innocent.
Repeating these words in his head over and over again, Miles’s heart rate starts to return to normal, and he feels calmer than before.
He rises from his bed in the dark, turning on a nearby lamp, and walking towards the desk in the room. Taking a seat, he gazes outside the window in the moonlight.
I may be innocent when it comes to my father…but I have caused pain to many.
Before Phoenix, his record was perfect. Just what does that mean for all those defendants? What does that mean for him, a man who stopped at nothing to have them pay for a crime they may not have committed?
His eyes slip shut. Miles feels every wrongdoing, every sin, every injustice crawl on his back.
Father…I hope you can forgive me one day.
Dear Phoenix,
Words cannot describe how it felt on that day, to lose everything. To lose my father, to lose my home, to lose my closest friends. It truly gutted me to leave everything I knew behind, forced to be taken in by a man who I now know has done a horrendous act.
I cannot tell you how many times the thought of you and your soft, encouraging smiles filled my mind. At times, it felt like the memories I had made with you were the very source of my motivation to wake up every morning. To keep going.
Do you understand how much a beacon of light you were? Even when I still lived in Japanifornia, I did not have any friends. Many found me to be too boring, too strange, too unlikeable.
But not you. You gazed upon me like I was worth something. Like I was more than an odd boy who idolized his father to an extreme extent. You listened to me. You talked to me like an equal and not an outsider. You made me feel like I truly belonged.
You were there for me.
Leaving everything I had ever known, including you, felt like losing a part of my very being. I hope you are aware of that.
However, I left you yet again, didn’t I? The hypocrisy of my words and actions is as clear as day. I need you to know that leaving after that dreadful, yet enlightening case—was one of the most difficult things I ever had to do.
I miss you dearly. I miss the phantoms of what could have been if I had simply stayed.
I promise that one day, I will be ready. I will be ready for whatever will come, rain or shine. I will repay what is owed, and much more.
I will be there for you as much as you have been there for me.
Sincerely,
Miles Edgeworth