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The Morning After
On an utterly ordinary morning, 24-year-old Phoenix Wright—owner of the Wright & Co. Law Offices—woke naturally as always, pulling open his curtains to greet the warm winter sunlight at 10:30 AM. He rose, washed up, and began a routine indistinguishable from every other idle morning since his agency had gone dormant. He filled his aging electric kettle, its worn switch creaking as it labored beyond its lifespan. He retrieved breakfast from the fridge—a convenience store rice ball left abandoned on the shelf the night before—and tossed it into the microwave. Habitually, he turned on the TV to replay the morning news.
It was only when he read the rice ball’s flavor that he understood its lonely fate on the shelf: potato curry with strawberry cream. Years later, Phoenix would remember that taste with crystalline clarity, though not for its bizarre combination.
The mundane details of days that fracture lives linger unforgettably.
As though those days never truly end.
As though part of you remains trapped in the moment before everything shattered.
A flicker of movement on the TV seized his attention. There, in grayscale, was the face that had haunted newspapers four years prior—the arrogant, youthful genius prosecutor who’d redirected Phoenix’s life. Beside it, recent photos of someone far more familiar: Miles Edgeworth. All drained of color, of life. The once-pale skin now corpse-white, the fiery red cravat that had blazed with authority in courtrooms reduced to funereal black. Who dared steal his color? Phoenix’s mind stalled, but his ears delivered the verdict first:
"Renowned prosecutor Miles Edgeworth was murdered shortly after midnight on the 24th. The suspect remains unknown."
The kettle screamed. Water boiled over as the newscast continued, but Phoenix heard none of it. The plate slipped from his hand. All that existed was the shriek—piercing, endless, damp, aching.
Absurdity flooded him. *Miles Edgeworth… murdered? How?* The words clashed—*deceased*, *Miles Edgeworth*—refusing to align. Grayscale photos. A joke? Yet…
The world itself seemed leached of color, drowned in monochrome: still, heavy, surreal. No tears came. Only numbness—the soul-flaying kind. Grief from death doesn’t topple buildings; it cracks foundations, eroding them grain by grain.
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**The Second Morning**
After a sleepless night, Phoenix dragged himself upright at the hour Edgeworth would’ve begun work. He called Detective Gumshoe. Through the phone’s static, the detective’s voice rasped with exhaustion.
"Gumshoe… any progress?" Phoenix pressed, desperate to name the monster behind this.
*"WAAAHHHHHHHHH—!!"* Sobs ruptured the line. *"I failed ‘im! Useless… couldn’t even… do this last thing for Mr. Edgeworth… He trusted us… trusted *me*…"* The detective’s voice broke entirely.
"...I’m sorry," Phoenix said. Strange—he’d meant to offer condolence, yet his own tears fell unchecked.
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The Third Morning
Phoenix stared into the mirror, meticulously smoothing his unruly hair—a ritual once reserved for court days. Now, his blue suit traded for mourning black. Purchased weeks prior for his mentor Mia Fey’s funeral, it now honored another irreplaceable loss. Gaunt-faced, he forced a smile at his reflection.
Stepping into the icy December dawn, Phoenix entered a world washed in the TV’s ashen palette. At the graveside, he lingered in shadows as chatty acquaintances fell silent. Even the ever-theatrical Larry Butz stood subdued, weeping violently while pounding Phoenix’s back. A prosecutor’s eulogy droned—bureaucratic, impersonal. Phoenix noted the crowd: colleagues, superiors, strangers. Edgeworth had no friends. Phoenix himself had only shared three childhood months with him. Fifteen years lost. They’d reunited, yet never truly reconnected.
As drizzle misted the air, Phoenix remained long after others left. Rain mingled with tears. He didn’t raise his umbrella.
A woman in an ornate cravat—mirroring Edgeworth’s—knelt at the headstone. Only when alone did her composure crack. Phoenix shielded her with his umbrella. Startled, she scrubbed her face and stood.
"Franziska von Karma. Miles Edgeworth’s… sister."Her accent clipped the silence. Phoenix hadn’t known Edgeworth had family. *"You’re Phoenix Wright. He mentioned you."* She extended a key. *"His apartment. There’s something for you."
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Edgeworth’s home felt like a sterile office annex—no decor, just legal tomes bearing thumb-worn spines. In the study sat a box of letters. Fifteen years’ worth. Every unanswered note Phoenix had sent, chronologically ordered. And beneath each—Edgeworth’s own unsent replies.
Here lay the truth: the elevator incident at age nine that shattered a boy. Fifteen years of nightmares Edgeworth never escaped. Letters confessing things Phoenix never knew—a favorite pastry shop near the prosecutor’s apartment, a black cat met after middle school.
Here was Edgeworth’s hidden self: doubt, hope, fragility, resolve. Idealism buried but alive, awaiting ignition. Here, too, the reason he’d pushed Phoenix away—to protect him from a world of knives.
Phoenix wept. These letters should’ve been a beginning. A prologue to trust, truth, camaraderie. Instead, they were an epitaph.
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The 10th Morning
Phoenix watched Kazami Yukio sentenced for Edgeworth’s murder. He’d thought justice might cauterize the wound. He was wrong. The drizzle never ceased.
The 98th Morning
Kay Faraday was convicted of manslaughter.
The 458th Morning
Matt Engarde walked free.
The 823rd Morning
Dahlia Hawthorne’s guilt was sealed.
The 6,483rd Morning
Now a legend, Phoenix Wright uncovered the DL-6 truth—and Edgeworth’s real killer. Fifteen years too late.
The Infinite Morning
The legendary attorney Phoenix Wright died as he’d lived: haunted by the boy he couldn’t save.
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