Work Text:
You should be at the library right now, Miles anxiously told himself as he stared at the ground. This isn’t productive at all. He would be so disappointed in you.
But it’s such a nice day today, and I haven’t been outside in forever, another part of his brain, the part he’d been trying to stamp out, argued. I can go to the library later.
In his defense, It was a beautiful day. Dappled sunlight filtered through the emerald green canopy overhead as Miles walked down the path. A gentle breeze flowed through the air, enough to ruffle his bangs but not enough to blow them into his eyes. Miles slowed down and allowed himself to admire the nature around him.
It wasn’t every day that Miles had the time to walk through the Englischer Garten. If you asked his mentor, Miles never had time to walk anywhere .
“You have to work tirelessly if you want to even have a chance at achieving perfection, Edgeworth,” The voice of Herr von Karma reminded him. “I expect all of your free time to be devoted to studying.”
Miles had agreed at the time, but after two years, the schedule of all work and no play was starting to grow tiresome. But now that he was 12, Herr von Karma had given him permission to walk to and from the manor, library and courthouse. Well, maybe he had less given permission and more said that he didn’t care what Miles did, as long as he was working, but Miles thought it still counted. If anyone asked, Miles would just say that he was on his way to the library. It was technically the truth. He was going to the library, he was just taking the long way there.
That was another thing that Herr von Karma had taught him. Half-truths work just as well, and sometimes better than telling the whole truth. It was a rule that applied both in and out of court. Hejust hoped that Herr von Karma wouldn’t be able to tell if Miles used a half-truth on him.
As Miles strolled along the path, nonchalantly admiring the flowers, he felt a nice sense of what only could be described as calm wash over him. There was still an underlying layer of the bad feeling, the one that made his chest tighten, the feeling that’d been there ever since that day-
Don’t think about it, Miles quickly thought to himself, shaking his head in an attempt to rid himself of those thoughts. Don’t let yourself ruin this perfectly good day.
Miles kept walking, not especially caring where he was going. He was content to just wander, to listen to the rustling of the leaves, the whistling of the birds and the faint chatter of far off voices.
Maybe getting away from the manor and relaxing every once in a while was a good thing, Miles wondered as he passed over a bridge. Surely it couldn’t hurt to occasionally take breaks, right? There could be balance.
Father used to take breaks, Miles’ traitorous brain reminded him quietly.
“Well, Father wasn’t trying to be perfect,” Miles hurriedly whispered to himself as he moved to glare at the ground again.
Miles tightened his hold on his backpack and kept moving forward. Thinking about the past never did any good. It only made that feeling worse. Like Herr von Karma always said, there was nothing for him in the past. He needed to devote all his energy towards the future. And his future was becoming the world’s greatest prosecutor. Well, second greatest, after Herr von Karma, of course.
Miles meandered past rows of trees, surprised by the sheer size of the park. He hasn’t spent a lot of time in the Englisher Garten, which he was beginning to regret. Responsibilities at the manor and his general lack of athleticism had kept him away from nature in the past, but as he walked through the park, he felt better than he had in a while. His thoughts felt less… heavy. The weather was perfect, the late spring flowers were still in full bloom, and the feeling of the golden sun on his skin almost made Miles smile. Maybe he could convince Herr von Karma to let him take Franziska to the park sometime.
The freedom he gained by walking had a certain novelty to it. The ability to go virtually anywhere, without his mentor’s approval and knowledge made Miles feel mature. He had some money on him. He could do any number of things he was sure Herr von Karma wouldn’t approve of.
Miles made a list of things in his head as he walked on the concrete, two steps on each square, making sure to never step on the crack.
He could take his shoes off and search for crayfish in the river. He could stop and listen to street performers. He could climb a tree. He could ride on the U-bahn. He could go see a movie. He could visit a museum. He could try on new clothes. He could buy the new Signal Samurai manga from a bookstore.
The more he thought about that last idea, the more enticing it became. As long as he hid it behind the books in his bookshelf, Herr von Karma would never know. But, then again, what if Herr von Karma kept track of all the money he spent? Miles didn’t want to imagine how angry he would be to learn that Miles had wasted his money on something as frivolous and juvenile as manga . No, that wouldn’t do. If he wanted to do something rebellious, he needed something small. He needed something inexpensive, something that didn’t leave any evidence. He needed something like…
Ice cream, Miles thought, slightly embarrassed, as a small snack stand up ahead caught his attention. There were a few people surrounding the counter, but nobody that would try to talk to him, let alone recognize him. It had been years since he had last eaten ice cream. Herr von Karma kept his pupils on a strict diet and insisted that sugary foods were pointless. Whenever they were given sweets, Miles usually gave most of his to Franziska, who seemed to like them a lot more than him. But ice cream had always been one of his favorites.
As he stood, trying to read the flavors (he knew what Schokoladeneis was, at least), his thoughts started to drift to a memory that felt like a lifetime and an ocean away.
On the day of his first grade parent open house, Miles stood side-by-side with his father, looking at the wall on which his class’s art was displayed. There were paintings, paper bag puppets, cut-out snowflakes, and a row of small clay pots on a shelf. The pots were the biggest art project of the year so far- first they had to mold the clay into shape, then they painted the pots after they had been fired, and finally, they filled the pots with soil and planted flower seeds. Every pot had several little red or white flowers growing in it by then. All except for one.
Miles tried not to look at his pot as his father admired the class’s artwork. Instead, he looked across the room at the reading corner, where The Witches by Roald Dahl was sitting, with a bookmark in the middle. It was above the reading level of his grade, a fact which Miles was proud of. He wanted his father to look away from the art, because it wasn’t nearly as interesting or good as his book. The book made Miles feel smart. The pots did not.
“You know, I never knew if the plural of octopus was octopuses or octopi,” His father remarked as he gazed up at the paper mache sea creatures that were hanging from the ceiling. He looked back down at Miles, with a smile on his face. “What do you think, Miles?”
Miles didn’t respond. He didn’t want to talk about the art. He didn’t want his father to ask which pieces were his. He didn’t want his father to look at his pot and be disappointed.
“Miles?” His father asked again. When Miles still didn’t reply, his smile fell and his brows furrowed. “What’s wrong?”
Miles would have said that nothing was wrong, but he knew his father would know he was lying. Instead, he felt his eyes start to sting with tears, and his hands flew up to cover his face.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” His father said as he dropped down to one knee and put his hands on Miles’ shoulders.
Without warning, Miles rushed forward and buried his face in his father’s shirt. His shoulders shook as he cried into the fabric.
His father immediately wrapped his arms around Miles and pulled him close to his chest. “It’s okay,” he said as he soothingly stroked Miles’ hair. “It’s okay to cry.”
“Crying’s for babies,” Miles snarled, his voice muffled.
“Now who told you that?” His father asked.
“Ethan.”
“Well, Ethan is incorrect, and that was a very rude thing for him to say,” His father told him. He held Miles by the shoulders and leaned him back so he could look him in the eye as he continued. “There is nothing wrong with crying. I cry sometimes, too. Do you think that makes me a baby?”
Miles shook his head.
“Exactly. So if anyone tries to tell you that again, you go ahead and tell them that adults cry too, okay?” He told him as he reached out to gently wipe the tears off his cheeks. “And if they don’t believe you, just let me know, and I’ll come to school and do a crying demonstration for them.”
That got Miles to giggle. “That’s not a real thing!” He exclaimed as he laughed and grabbed his father’s wrist.
“Well it is now,” He declared, before he settled into a softer tone. “Now, do you want to tell me about what’s making you upset?”
Miles nodded slowly, although he felt his eyes begin to well up with tears again. “My pot is bad. I couldn’t make it the right shape and it’s ugly and I couldn’t paint it right, and today during recess it got knocked over and nobody noticed until Kyle and Sarah stepped on my flowers on accident. And Miss Hatcher didn’t have any more flower seeds, so now I’m the only one in the whole class with an empty pot.”
Miles finished with a sniffle, and he stood there quietly, wiping his eyes, waiting for his father to give him the same look Miss Hatcher gave him. The look that made Miles feel like he was stupid, like he shouldn’t cry over just a silly pot.
Instead, his father nodded seriously. “That’s quite a few things to be upset about.”
Miles didn’t really know what to say. He hadn’t been expecting that. Didn’t his father think he was getting upset over nothing, too?
“Listen, Miles,” his father said as he met his son’s eyes again. “Sometimes, things just make us unhappy. And that’s okay. It’s okay to be upset. There are just some things that you’re not going to be good at when you try them for the first time. And that can be really frustrating.”
Miles just nodded again. He had been so worried, but his father didn’t think he was stupid. He wasn’t stupid.
“Besides,” He said, and he reached into the rows and picked up Miles’s pot. It wasn’t hard to find- it was the only empty one. He looked at it for a few seconds, and Miles held his breath, before he saw a smile creep onto his face. “I love your pot.”
“You do?” Miles replied skeptically.
“I do,” His father confirmed. “I love it because I know you worked hard and did the best you could. Maybe it’s not “perfect,” but if it was the same as everyone else’s, it would be boring. But more than that, I love it because you made it. You created something, and that, in itself, is something to be proud of.”
Miles looked at his pot. Maybe it was a little odd shaped, but that’s okay. His father was right. He made it, and he could be happy with that.
Miles nodded and smiled a watery smile, and a fond look appeared on his father’s face. “That’s my boy. How about we go out and get ice cream after this?”
“Yes please!” Miles smiled excitedly, before he grabbed his father’s hand to pull him towards the bookshelf in the corner. “Come look at how much I read!”
His father just smiled and laughed, and didn’t stop smiling the whole day. That evening, as they sat in an ice cream shop, Miles with pistachio, and his father with blueberry, Miles realized that as long as his dad was proud of him, he could be proud of himself too.
Miles blinked back to reality, feeling the familiar stinging in his eyes. He swallowed back against the tightness of his throat and turned to walk away from the stand.
Ice cream was messy, unhealthy, and downright childish. Of course he couldn’t waste his mentor’s money on it, what was he thinking? His foolish sentimentality had gotten the better of him again. He needed to find a way to control his thoughts, before he did something to make Herr von Karma really upset.
Miles picked up the pace significantly as he decided that it was finally time to go to the library, like he said he would in the first place. He stared down at the ground with a glare on his face as he made his way towards the exit. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice the stone steps until it was too late.
The bottom of Miles' heel connected with the edge of the top step, but his momentum carried him forward and his foot slipped. He threw out his hands to catch himself, but there was nothing to catch himself on. He tumbled harshly down the steps and landed in a heap at the bottom.
It was only a couple feet, but it still hurt . Miles gingerly sat up and started to check over himself. His palms were lightly but painfully scraped, his head hurt where he had bumped it against the concrete, and his arms and legs were covered in little bumps and scratches. One of his knees had a particularly nasty scrape that was beginning to bleed. A combination of pain, frustration and embarrassment caused his eyes to water again as he held his knee in his hands, unsure of what to do.
“It’s okay to cry,” His father’s memory said to him.
“A von Karma never cries,” He was reminded by his mentor’s harsh words, accompanied by a phantom smack to the back of the head. He sat on the ground, closed his eyes and held his breath, desperately fighting back tears. Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm. At least nobody was around to see-
“Geht’s Ihngen gut?” A voice asked him. Miles cursed under his breath, but fell silent when the man continued to speak. There was something oddly familiar about the voice, even though he was sure he didn’t recognize it. The person had a slight American accent, although their German seemed perfect. “Sind Sie verletzt?”
“Nein, mir geht es gut,” Miles responded, thankful that he at least knew that much German. He heard footsteps, and in the corner of his eye he saw a person at the top of the stairs. Miles turned to try to thank him for his concern, but his words got caught in his throat as he looked at the stranger.
He was wearing a long suit in Miles’ favorite shade of burgundy, with a black waistcoat and rather striking golden buttons. The man had gray hair, styled in angular bangs in front of his face, almost exactly like Miles. But it wasn’t his good fashion sense or similar hair that made Miles do a double take.
He had gray eyes, and was wearing red glasses in square frames. As Miles looked at the man, he realized that he was looking at the face of his father .
The stranger stood completely still for a moment, watching the shock on Miles' face grow into terror. He looked confused for a second, before his eyebrows suddenly shot up and he reached a hand up to lightly touch his cheekbone.
“Maybe it would help if I…” The man muttered to himself in English before he hastily took off his glasses and tucked them into his breast pocket. Miles gulped, relieved to find that without the glasses, the man didn’t as closely resemble his father. For just a moment, Miles’ mind had hastily jumped to the conclusion that the man was his father. How foolish. But, even without the glasses, there was something distinctly familiar about the man’s face. Even though he was sure he had never met the man before, for some odd reason, Miles felt like… like he had known him all his life. It was a strange and slightly concerning feeling.
“My German is rather rusty,” The man apologized in English as he made his way down the steps to stand next to Miles. He knelt down onto one knee ( just like he used to do-), reached into his coat, and pulled out a handkerchief. He held it out to Miles, who was too busy staring at the man’s face in some strange mixture of shock and curiosity to take it from him.
After a moment, the man waved the handkerchief a tiny bit and reminded him, “You’re bleeding.”
“Oh,” Miles responded dumbly. It was nice to take a break from speaking German all the time. He missed speaking English. He gratefully took the handkerchief and pressed it to his knee, before any more blood could drip onto the pavement or his clothes. He stared at his knee, deciding it was safer than looking at the stranger’s face. He suddenly remembered his manners and belatedly said, “Thank you.”
Miles expected the interaction to be complete after that, and waited for the man to walk away. But, to his surprise, he stayed right where he was, kneeling next to him. He was still looking at Miles' knee.
“You need to clean that, or else it’ll get infected,” The stranger told him as he stood up. He still didn’t leave, though. Instead, he picked up Miles' bag that had fallen off when he had taken his tumble, and offered his hand to Miles. “You should sit on that bench over there, and I’ll get you some water.”
Miles knew that he wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers. That was something his father had taught him when he was little. But there was something about this man, something that made Miles feel like he could be trusted. It was... illogical, and inexplicable, but Miles couldn’t bring himself to believe that the man was up to no good. So, against his better judgment, he took the man’s hand, and let himself be pulled up off the ground, and led over to a nearby bench.
He sat down and applied pressure to his scrape as he watched the man walk over to the snack stand. He returned a few minutes later with a bottle of water, alcohol wipes, and several large band-aids. He handed them to Miles, and silently sat down on the bench next to him.
“Thank you. Um... I’m Miles. Miles Edgeworth,” Miles introduced himself as he uncapped the water and started to wash the blood and dirt off his hands and knee.
“...It’s nice to meet you, Miles,” The man said with the smallest of smiles. Miles got the impression that he didn’t smile a lot. “My name is…”
The man paused, with his mouth slightly agape, looking off into the distance. Miles thought it was odd. What kind of person had to think before they introduced themself? After a moment, he finally responded, “...Wright. Richard Wright.”
“Wright? Are you related to Phoenix Wright?” Miles asked reflexively, before he mentally scolded himself. Wright’s a common last name, why on earth would he know that Wright? The past is in the past. You need to forget about him.
Mr. Wright was quiet for a moment, before he nodded. “Yes, actually. I… I married into Phoenix’s family,” He explained. Then, hastily, he added, “If we’re talking about the same Phoenix Wright, that is.”
“What other Phoenix Wright could there be? Nobody’s named Phoenix,” Miles remarked. Stop, stop, stop. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about the past.
To his surprise, the man- Mr. Wright chuckled at that. “It is a rather odd name, isn’t it?”
Miles just nodded and opened the alcohol wipe packet. He rubbed it on his scrape, and hissed at the stinging pain. It was easier to ignore when he was talking, but now that he wasn’t distracted, the pain from his various scrapes and bruises was very apparent. He cursed himself for being so sensitive as tears started to form again.
Miles suddenly forgot how to breathe as he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay to cry,” Mr. Wright quietly told him.
Everything about the gesture, from the light touch on his shoulder to the cadence in which the words were spoken were exactly how his father used to comfort him. It had been so long since Miles had last heard those words. And, with just that simple gesture, that small act of comfort, the walls that Miles had spent that last two years building came crumbling down.
Miles sat on the park bench and clutched his shirt as tears started to roll down his cheeks. He was silent- he had gotten very good at crying quietly- and he held his breath as warm salty drops fell, leaving tiny dark spots on his shorts.
Mr. Wright reached out to carefully wrap his arms around Miles, and to his surprise, Miles let him. Miles let himself be pulled into a firm but gentle hug, let himself bury his face in the fabric of his suit. He let himself cry all the tears he had been holding in for who knows how long. He sat there on the bench and let himself cry as Mr. Wright held him, just like his father used to.
There had been no time to grieve, after his father died. There was no last goodbye, no real funeral, no mourning. As soon as Miles was released from the hospital, he was on a plane to Germany. Miles didn’t know what to think, what to feel, what to do, how to cope. He realized very quickly that Herr von Karma wouldn’t provide the comfort he was looking for. There was nobody who could provide that in that big, empty manor. There was the house staff and Franziska’s mother, but Miles wasn’t supposed to talk to the staff, and Franziska’s mother was gone shortly after he arrived. Franziska was there, but she was so young, and she didn’t know him at the beginning.
Ultimately, Miles was alone. He was alone when he was scolded for crying in front of Herr von Karma for the first (and last) time, alone when he cried in his bed that was too big for him, hugging a pillow close to his chest. He was alone when he woke each night, the sounds of gunshots and a terrible scream ringing in his ears.
He was alone in remembering his father, alone in missing him. Miles was alone in his pain. So he had chosen to ignore it, because distracting himself was easier than accepting how much it hurt.
But here was Mr. Wright, a complete stranger, holding on to Miles just like how his father used to. Here was Mr. Wright, who kept quietly saying to Miles that it was alright, that it was okay to cry, to let it out. For just a moment, Miles let himself be nine again, he let himself feel all the sorrow he had bottled up for years. Miles felt like his heart was being squeezed by a boa constrictor as he let out the sobs he had been holding in. It was all so much, but the feeling of Mr. Wright’s hand on the back of his head was comforting, and the words he was whispering to him were soothing in a way that Miles had forgotten words could be. Mr. Wright held on to him tight as Miles slowly calmed down, until his crying had tapered off to the occasional sniffle.
As he calmed down, the catharsis Miles felt from finally letting it all out slowly morphed into extreme embarrassment and shame. Did he really just have a breakdown? In front of someone he had just met? Not to mention that someone with such good fashion sense could only be someone very important. How could he have let himself slip up that badly? He must look like such a fool. Not to mention how irresponsible he was being. He didn’t know Mr. Wright! What if he was some kind of criminal? Miles couldn’t really buy into that though. What kind of criminal dressed as nicely as Mr. Wright did?
Miles pushed away and furiously wiped at his eyes. “I’m sorry,” He quietly said, picking up the handkerchief to wipe off the blood that had accumulated while he was bawling his eyes out.
“You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for,” Mr. Wright told him, in a tone that carried so much conviction that Miles almost believed him. “If anyone should be apologizing, it’s me. I hugged you without your permission, which was very rude of me.”
“It’s okay,” Miles told him. In reality, it was much better than okay. If not for his guilt and shame, Miles probably would have stayed in that hug for as long as Mr. Wright would have let him. He bit his lip, thinking, before he quietly explained, “You remind me of someone I used to know.”
Mr. Wright looked incredibly surprised to hear that. He sounded hesitant as he responded, “If you don’t mind me asking, who might that be?”
Miles closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He distracted himself with opening and applying the band-aids as he said, “My father.”
“Oh,” Mr. Wright breathed, in a voice that sounded weirdly far away. “I… I see. ...Is he-”
“Dead,” Miles spat, hating the way the word tasted on his lips. “Two years ago.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mr. Wright murmured.
“Don’t be,” Miles said as he glared at the ground. It didn’t matter that it was the first time it felt like those words had felt like they meant something. Sorry meant nothing. Sorry wouldn’t bring his father back, sorry wouldn’t buy him a plane ticket back to America. No matter how comforting or familiar Mr. Wright was, he could never understand. Miles Edgeworth wasn’t someone to be pitied. “It’s in the past.”
“That doesn’t stop it from being painful,” Mr. Wright responded, and Miles paused in the middle of peeling a bandaid out of its wrapper.
His mentor had told him time and time again there was no point dwelling on the past. Miles was trying not to, but it was haunting him, day and night. But was what Mr. Wright has said true?
Miles suddenly shook his head. What did Mr. Wright know? Nothing. He didn’t know Miles, let alone what he was going through. “You wouldn’t understand.”
He heard a short laugh from next to him, and when Miles turned in his seat, he saw Mr. Wright with a far off look in his eyes. “Don’t I?” He mused.
“What do you…” Miles trailed off, realizing with a start that he probably already knew the answer. He suddenly felt even more guilty.
“My father died when I was young, too,” Mr. Wright told Miles. Miles felt the tips of his ears turn red as he looked away. It seemed he had been too quick to judge. “Losing someone important is not something one can just forget about, no matter how much they try.”
Miles looked down and drew a line in the dirt with his shoe as he closed his fist around the empty band-aid wrappers. That didn’t make any sense. Herr von Karma always told him to forget about his father, his past, and his dreams of becoming a defense attorney. “My mentor says that thinking about my father only serves to distract me and hold me back.”
Mr. Wright suddenly had a darker look on his face. “I don’t believe that’s very good advice.”
Miles blinked. Suddenly, he felt defensive. If the advice Herr von Karma had been giving him for the past two years “wasn’t good,” what did that say about Miles? Surely Mr. Wright was simply mistaken.
Miles decided to take the opportunity to educate him. “Manfred von Karma is an incredibly famous and respectable prosecutor. He is an unparalleled expert in the field of law and I’m very lucky to be mentored by him.”
“Yes, well, that doesn’t make him an expert in overcoming grief, now does it?” Mr. Wright asked pointedly.
Miles didn’t know how to respond to that. He was pondering whether or not there was perhaps some logic to that statement, when he shook his head. Herr von Karma couldn’t have been as powerful and successful as he was without knowing what he was doing, in all aspects of life. If Miles wanted to be perfect like him, he couldn’t doubt his advice. He wouldn’t.
For a beat, the two of them sat in silence on the bench together.
“...It goes away, right?” Miles said quietly, after a moment of deciding whether or not it was worth asking. “The pain. And the sadness. Eventually, they go away, right?”
Mr. Wright didn’t say anything for a long time, and Miles started to worry that he had said the wrong thing. Then, Mr. Wright let out a long sigh.
“No,” He admitted, his voice barely louder than a whisper. Miles looked up at him in surprise. “The pain and sadness never truly disappear.”
“They don’t? ” Miles echoed, feeling despair forming in the pit of his stomach.
“Maybe not. However… life goes on,” He continued reassuringly, gesturing to the park around them. “Eventually, you begin to heal. You find new reasons to live, new people to care for. The pain remains, but… things become easier.”
Mr. Wright smiled with an odd, far-off look on his face. It was somehow sad and happy all at the same time.
“I’ll never stop missing my father. But I know that he would have wanted me to be happy. So that’s what I’ll do, to the best of my ability.”
Miles looked at the ground again. He felt guilt burning in his chest as he admitted, “Sometimes I wish I could just forget. It would make everything a lot easier.”
“Do you really wish to forget your father?” Mr. Wright asked.
“...No,” Miles sighed, after a moment of staring at the ground.
“I think that’s wise. I think it would be a great disservice to him, and to all he did for you if you truly wished to forget. It might be difficult, but I implore you to keep your memories of him alive. Never forget what he taught you. After all, it’s all we have left after a person passes.”
Miles looked up at Mr. Wright again. Was there a way to keep his father’s memory alive, while following Herr von Karma’s plans for him? He wasn’t sure. But maybe, just for a moment…
“Could I tell you about him?”
Mr. Wright smiled at him, in that familiar-yet-unfamiliar way. “I would be honored.”
“...He liked peanut butter,” Miles began, entirely unsure of where to start. How do you condense a whole person into just a few words? Mr. Wright nodded encouragingly, and Miles took a deep breath as he continued. “And Raisin Bran, that was his favorite cereal. His favorite TV show was MASH. He drove a volvo station wagon. He picked it because it was supposed to be a really safe car, and he wanted me to be safe.”
“Very practical,” Mr. Wright mused. “What else?”
“He was… really good at making blueberry pancakes. He said the secret was not flipping them over too soon, and to let them sit until you saw the bubbles forming on top. And scrambled eggs. His scrambled eggs were perfect.” Miles smiled, suddenly remembering his father in their kitchen, wearing a novelty “grilling the witness” apron one of his work friends had bought for him.
“He liked to listen to the radio while he cooked. At breakfast he’d always drink coffee and read the newspaper, and at dinner he would always ask me about my day. He taught me how to play chess. I could always tell when he let me win.” As Miles went on, he felt a tightness in his throat, and his eyes start to sting. It felt slightly different this time, though. It felt… lighter. “He let me keep a stray dog my friends and I found once. We named him Missile. He always wore a suit, a hat, and a big brown trench coat. He kind of looked like you, actually.”
Mr. Wright looked taken aback for a moment. “Really?”
“Yes. He had glasses, too, kind of like the ones you were wearing,” Miles explained. “...He was a lawyer. A defense attorney. He always said a defense attorney’s job was to defend those who couldn’t defend themselves. I wanted to be just like him.”
“...He sounds like a great man,” Mr. Wright told him. “And it sounds like he loved you very much.”
At that, Miles’ tears finally broke free once more. It was true, wasn’t it? His father loved him. He loved him and now he was gone , and Miles would never feel that love again.
Mr. Wright placed a hand on his back as Miles tried (and failed) to stop crying. Miles was in the process of rubbing his cheeks when he heard a sniff from beside him. He looked over and was surprised to find that Mr. Wright was dabbing his own red eyes with a handkerchief.
“I’m sorry,” Miles apologized, shocked into a temporary pause in crying.
“Don’t be,” He waved a hand reassuringly. “Hearing you talk about your father reminded me of my own.” That made sense, Miles supposed. Mr. Wright carefully folded his handkerchief and placed it in his pocket.
“I’m supposed to be at the library,” Miles exclaimed, suddenly remembering where he was, and what he was supposed to be doing. He shot up from the bench and tried to quickly wipe his face. The librarian would certainly recognize him, and he did not want word of his little “meltdown” getting back to Herr von Karma.
“I understand,” Mr. Wright said. “I apologize for keeping you.”
Miles turned to look at him. Surely someone so well-dressed was also well-connected. “...Please forget that you saw me here.”
Mr. Wright stood up from the bench. “You’re the only one who knows.”
Miles nodded thankfully. He grabbed his bag from the bench and turned to walk away.
“Wait,” Mr. Wright stopped him. “Just one moment.”
Miles dutifully stood still and watched as Mr. Wright approached the snack stand. He said something to the worker, and after a moment, returned with an ice cream bar with a red wrapper in his hand.
“They didn’t have pistachio, they never do, but I think you’ll find lingonberry to be almost as good.” He held the snack out to Miles.
How did he know I like pistachio ice cream? Miles took it, more confused than anything. “Thank you?”
Mr. Wright smiled in that odd way again. He reached into his pocket, retrieved his glasses, and placed them on his face. Once again, Miles was struck with just how similar to his father this man looked.
Suddenly, Mr. Wright seemed to remember something. He reached into a different pocket in his jacket and pulled out his wallet. “I’d like you to have something. It brought me some comfort when my father passed. Perhaps it will do the same for you.”
Before Miles could respond, Mr. Wright had slipped something out of his wallet and pressed it into his hand. Miles looked at it, and had to do a double take. His jaw dropped as he realized what it was.
“This is a Steel Samurai Ultra Rare Premium trading card!” Miles nearly shouted.
“A first edition holographic card,” Mr. Wright corrected him. “That is an extremely rare card. It would behoove you to keep it in that protective case, and to store it somewhere safe.”
Miles stood like a deer in the headlights. When was the last time he had received something as special as this? He opened and closed his mouth like a fish as he struggled to comprehend the fact that he was holding a first edition holographic steel samurai ultra rare premium card.
“I can’t just take this from you,” Miles shook his head, still in disbelief.
“Then consider it on loan,” Mr. Wright offered.
Miles looked up at him in awe. He seemed like he was really going to let him have the card. “When should I give it back to you, then?”
Mr. Wright looked off into the distance with a small smile. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll meet again someday. Just keep it safe until then, alright?”
“Thank you,” Miles breathed.
“You’re very welcome. Now run along. Your ice cream is melting.”
“Yes sir,” Miles nodded, not taking his eyes off the card in his hands. He had only taken a few steps when suddenly, realization dawned on him.
“Wait, how did you know I like the Steel Samurai-” Miles spun around, but stopped dead in his tracks. Where Mr. Wright had been just a minute before, there was now no one. Miles looked around in confusion, but nowhere in the garden did he spot a glimpse of the man in the burgundy suit.
Where did he go? He thought, flummoxed, as he stood in the middle of the path, ice cream in one hand, trading card in the other.
The garden provided no answers. Miles considered searching for him, but when he checked his watch, he realized he was very late to his study session.
With nothing else that could be done, Miles gave up his brief search. He carefully tucked the card into one of his books, and carefully slid the whole thing into his bag. He slung it on his shoulder and with his hands finally free, opened his ice cream bar. As he started on his trek to the library, he took a bite.
What do you know, Miles thought. Lingonberry is good .
Maybe it would be a good day after all.