In the game, Ema has an identification card with a little picture of a girl (most likely her) on it. On some official artwork, the identification card has the symbol H2O (which I think is so much cooler). Why the difference? I don't know. Nothing makes sense in this universe. Please comment.

FRAGMENTS

There are several things that are embedded in Phoenix Wright's memory.

His childhood was not particularly episodic. After all, he did not have to face years of tutelage from von Karma, nor did he have sleepless nights due to the guilt and the possibility of killing his own father. Instead, he went to high school, like most ordinary young boys, spent way too much time pulling Larry out of whatever nonsense he found himself in and was brought up by two loving parents whom he last saw in the airport waving goodbye as they headed for further north.

--

He remembers simple things, like creasing and folding sheets of paper in a particular manner — three sections, folding the bottom section first, then the top over it. He always wrote his weekly letters on plain off-white paper with no rules, despite his sentences curving upwards or downwards. When his feet were finally able to reach the floor from his chair and his voice was broken, he still found time every week to ritually sit at his desk and write about the mundane occurrences in his life. His writing gradually improved. No longer were his sentences scattered jumping from one topic to another and he upgraded to writing with pens from writing with pencils. Sometimes the letter was only one page long with the repetitive 'How are you?' and 'Things have been OK here' and perhaps a mention of a small joke. Other times, the letter extended to four pages with detailed descriptions of whatever incident occurred in school, home or with Larry.

He dreamed of receiving a response someday. As he entered his teenaged years, his optimism faltered slightly. He realised that there was a possibility that his 'pen pal' was no longer the nine year old he knew but that he was someone who was growing up, just like him. This person might have new tastes, new clothes, new opinions and new friends. Still, each letter written felt comforting to Phoenix. He was able to tell his childhood friend, wherever he might be in the world, anything on his mind and he still spoke in each written word with such intimacy, that it was almost childlike.

When he finished his letter, tongue between teeth, he folded the sheets in the habitual manner before fitting them snugly into an envelope avoiding any possible dog ears. It was not as though he spent a lot of time folding pages for practice or was suffering from any form of obsessive compulsive disorder; it was just a discreet way of letting the receiver of these letters know that the writer cared.

--

He remembers how he received the scars on his knee and elbow.

Larry dared him to ride his bicycle down the steep hill near his home and though he felt foolish, his twelve year old self was determined. He marched up the hill, looking back occasionally to see if Larry was still there and witnessing. Of course, the boy with brown hair and khaki pants stood at the bottom waving expectantly with the most ridiculous lop-sided smile on his face. Phoenix's slippers dug into the dry soil on that hot summer day as he dragged the bike slowly. He wiped the back of his neck and was surprised to find himself so sweaty. He could not tell if it was the August heat or if it was his anxiety. When he reached at a point so high that he could see the colourful roofs of houses, he mounted his bike, breathed deeply to reassure himself, and gave a push.

The breeze lashed his cheeks and he felt as if he was falling into the earth from the sky with absolute freedom in his heart. It was if he was flying, as clichéd as it sounded in his mind… until he lost control and fell clumsily and awkwardly to the ground. His bike bounced and skated a few feet from him, rather pathetically. His knee and elbow gave stung as the gravel dug into his skin and distantly he could hear Larry calling up to him.

The scar on Phoenix's knee gradually faded, but the imprint on his elbow stayed well into adulthood, as if it was a bitter reminder of how naïve his twelve year old mind was.

"I can't believe I listened to Larry."

--

He remembers Dahlia's — no, Iris' scent: faint but sweet.

Phoenix could not describe it and if anyone had asked him to, he would reply, "She smells like her." He hugged her a lot even if it was to simply remind himself that she was real, not a figment of his imagination, and he worried that if he let go, she'd disappear. She was small, but she felt solid in his arms. Her hair brushed against his cheek comfortingly and she gave a small tug of his shirt. Whether she was aware of this he did not know.

News of Dahlia's betrayal struck him like a sharp knife. It had been the first time he ever opened up to a girl so openly. Before this single being with the trademark umbrella and the soft smile, the only people Phoenix confided in were his friend Larry and the receiver of his weekly letters. After a long day as a defendant, he went to his room and hid himself beneath his sheets, ignoring the snores of his roommate. His red scarf was folded at the foot of the bed but his sweater, made from fine pink wool was unceremoniously thrown at his chair. When he turned to face the wall, a taped picture of his beloved smiled at him. He touched her gloss face.

Phoenix felt confused and stupid. Had the past few months been only a lie? If his Dollie truly was guilty, then he was the most idiotic person on the planet. His heart ached as if a great weight of lead was resting on it. He rose from his bed, stretching out the parts of his body that were already falling asleep and switched on the lamp beside him, careful not to wake his sleeping roommate. On his shelf were books of literature, plays, art and the alien law books. With an utterly depressed sigh, he pulled a heavy fat maroon law book from its resting place and settled by his desk to read.

--

Phoenix remembers Mia's computer. She once joked about being computer illiterate, but after seeing the old box of plastic and wires, he had realised that there may be some truth after all. He remembers when she came into the office with the computer in her arms — never mind that it might be older that Phoenix himself, and the fact that it was at a garage sale at a suspicious discount. The screen did not show proper colours, everything took too long to load, and the hard disk space was practically nothing. It seemed to pose more as a decorative object than a useful tool — as if having a computer would give the office the look of importance with an old fashioned flourish. Mia was happy with it though and she used it for only checking her emails.

When Fey & Co. Law Offices became Wright & Co. Law Offices, the first thing Phoenix did was to buy a new computer and throw away the old insulting piece of machinery. The second thing Phoenix did was return the old insulting piece of machinery and sell the new computer. The old computer was mostly useless but he felt some strange sentimental value for it, as if throwing it away permanently was like tossing away fond memories.

"Yeah, fond memories of sitting in front of the computer for hours trying to get your email account open."

He preferred writing anyway.

--

He remembers Maya's slippers that gave a clack-clack on wooden floors, a sound he became fond of. He remembers the beads in her hair and necklace too and whenever she was excited, they would rattle lightly. He grew so accustomed to her presence that her sudden departure on the day after Edgeworth's trial frightened him and he had no choice to but to find her. Even at the train station, as she waved what would not be the last goodbye with grateful tears in her eyes, there was a strange pang of loss in his chest.

He remembers Pearl's hair, twisted tightly but delicately. On happy days, the hair would bounce. He remembers the small slippers she also wore. Her footsteps on wooden floors were much lighter than Maya's but distinct nonetheless, especially since she usually walked at a quicker pace than Maya. 'Pearls' he called her and when she looked up at him with an innocent smile that shattered any evil in the world, she truly was a pearl.

He remembers the buttons on Ema's white jacket, the strange identification card pinned on the pocket that had the symbol for water — H2O, and the mysterious test tubes filled with pale green solutions in her bag. She wore pink buckled shoes that did not give a distinct sound on wooden floors, but her walk, test tubes clattering the same way Maya's beads rattled, was unmistakable.

Spirit mediums and science fanatics - Phoenix wondered how he managed to attract these characters as assistants.

--

He remembers the smell of coffee. Godot embodied every word that was a synonym for suave. Smooth... that was the word. Everything from the two earrings in his left ear to the way he would shake his head mockingly and drink the black liquid from the solid white cup was smooth. But after more than five cups of coffee in one of their cases, Phoenix wondered about the sanity of this man as the hypnotic smell filled the room.

He remembers the loud crack of a whip. Franziska von Karma was a strangely intimidating prosecutor. Her hair was short and neatly cut. "She probably thought that time should not be spent caring for mundane things like hair and that long hair probably is not intimidating as short hair… maybe she just thought it looked good." She was shorter than Phoenix but her sharp eyes, accented by the single dot next to the left eye seemed to pierce into Phoenix's brain even with the mutterings of 'foolishly foolish fools' from her glossed lips.

And of course, he remembers Edgeworth. After fifteen years, the courtroom rival seemed to have changed completely at first glance, yet at the same time he did not seem to change at all. Phoenix was afraid. Did he expect that Edgeworth would slap him on the back like buddies? The newspaper clippings showed a different man, someone who Phoenix had never met before. In person however, when they interacted, Phoenix saw a hidden glimpse of the nine year old boy. Demon Prosecutor, they called him. A genius. Did everything possible to get a guilty verdict, they said. But to Phoenix, Miles Edgeworth was Miles Edgeworth. Beneath the cold grey eyes that frightened any defence attorney whenever he called an objection were tales untold after fifteen long years.

Coffee addicted men, whip-carrying women and childhood friends - Phoenix wondered how he managed to attract these characters as the prosecutors during his cases.

--

He remembers actually watching an episode of Steel Samurai. He chewed on his sandwich, preventing any biting or sarcastic remarks while Maya sprung gleefully from her seat reciting several lines and making strange sound effects. The television howled dangerously as Evil Magistrate attacked the protagonist with confident ease before the Steel Samurai gave his comeback. Phoenix was reminded that Edgeworth actually enjoyed this show too and the defence attorney could not fathom any reason why.

--

He remembers Edgeworth's umbrella. It was plain and black (not pink as Phoenix thoughtlessly first expected) and it did not possess any flamboyancy found in most of the prosecutor's other things.

It had been Phoenix's idea that the two should take a walk. One glance at Edgeworth's office was enough encouragement for him. Files were piled on his desk, like the paper high tide had come and Phoenix could clearly see the dark marks beneath his friend's eyes.

Edgeworth remarked how ridiculous the situation was.

"I have a car, Wright."

He knew this, but a car could not replace the experience of walking with a friend. It was not as if he asked Edgeworth: "Hey, let's take a walk in the rain!" He merely judged the clouds badly. In fact he did not even consider that it would rain until Edgeworth picked up the umbrella. It was only when they were far enough from the prosecutor's office did the downpour start. Not even a drizzle prepared them. Phoenix's optimism failed and he quickly brought himself under the umbrella, already opened by the pessimistic Edgeworth.

Even though his feet were soaked from stepping into too many puddles, the comfort Phoenix felt was irreplaceable. His elbow bumped into Edgeworth's as he remarked on anything that was not related to cases - the cleaning up he had to do in his apartment, how different the city looked at night — anything that would clear both their minds. As they strolled through the streets of Los Angeles, they were isolated in their own private world, a small bubble beneath the black umbrella. Phoenix felt completely safe. Edgeworth's - no, Miles' face was unreadable, but when Phoenix turned to glance at him, he believed that his grey-haired friend with the expensive cologne (that could be sensed from such close proximity) felt safe too.

Trucy sang an old familiar tune as she skipped along the pavement, right hand firmly on her hat, in case it was tempted to fly off with the heavy wind. Her knee-high boots tapped rhythmically against the pavement. Phoenix was just behind, watching the little girl's cloak billow. She turned back to see if he was still following her and smiled.

"Let me hold it for you," he offered, pointing to her hat. She handed it to him.

He noted, as he glanced at the hat in his hands, how unclean his nails were now. Black dirt was caked between skin and nail. Whiskers were growing on his chin and upper lip. His sandals were worn with age so badly that the soles moulded into the shape of his feet. He had not even applied gel in his hair since... He couldn't even remember that at least. It may have been yesterday for all he cared. Yet all the small simple fragments he tried to forget during past nights with alcohol, from letters to old computers, were embedded in his memory, unfading like the new memories being formed with the little girl in front of him.

END