He's changed, grown old. So old.
Because when I first knew him, he was over-energetic, and his eyes were full of dreams. He was the type to wear pink, to wear his heart on his sleeve, to cry at the drop of a hat. Young, I thought. Young for his age.
He wanted to learn from me, be an attorney. Why not…he could show potential, if he toned himself down a bit. His mind, once it had matured slightly, could belong to a very good – no, an excellent defense lawyer.
And so it was. It was his first trial, and he won. He won, and left that silly prosecutor Payne with a crushed reputation as a defeater of rookie lawyers. I realised he did, in fact, show much more promise than I had thought. But he was still young for his age.
Then I died.
From there, I watched him take charge, win cases, smash lies and discover the truth. He still sometimes needed me to guide him. But as his mind became more brilliant, like cutting a diamond, he was still a child to Miles Edgeworth, to Franziska von Karma…and to me.
Having my sister around was good for him, I thought. It forced him to be the grown-up of the situation.
And then, Engarde.
Maya was kidnapped. And Phoenix grew up before my eyes. This was no matter of finding the truth. He had to save Maya. And if he had to accuse an innocent woman of murder, so be it. If he had to ignore his conscience, too bad. Maya must be saved.
I continued to watch his life from the other world. And saw the remembered pain in his eyes, as he discovered what Furio Tigre had done to Viola Cadaverini. Inexcusable, he called it. Poisoning and betrayal. I remembered back to that case…poisoning and betrayal.
Inexcusable. Dahlia Hawthorne had ripped him in two, and the hurt had never healed.
He had changed a lot since Dahlia Hawthorne.
And he sounded old for his age.
Then…the disbarring. It killed him. Killed Nick, my student, my friend…and left Phoenix the pianist in his place, the hobo with a perfect win record…at poker.
Phoenix Wright's young eyes, too young for his age, were gone forever, aged in an instant. In an instant, his eyes became those of an old man.
And now, seven years later, I'm still crying ghostly tears. Mourning, in fact, for Phoenix Wright. You could say he's died more than once in his life. He's been three separate people. The kid in pink, the lawyer in blue, the hobo in grey. And you know what?
I can't believe now that he could ever have sounded young for his age.