Story of Hope

A taxi pulled up to the curb, rolling over a thin layer of fresh snow. Miles stepped out into the cold, winter night, the wind picking up and nipping his nose.
His cheeks grew pink—but that was because he was a nervous wreck.

Squinting against the snow, he looked up at the apartment building and bit the inside of his cheek. He imagined getting here, he imagined walking up these steps and he imagined speaking the words that he'd been rehearsing the whole way here. But as he looked up, he felt his heart pulsing in his throat. His knees locked and refused to move. His knuckles grew white from his clenched fists.

He spent too much money to turn away. He forced himself up the stairs. He forced one foot in front of the other, and he trudged up the wooden steps with haste. He hauled himself to the door on the right—the door he hadn't seen in years.

He lifted his hand to knock—a gesture so automatic now feeling so bold—but he hesitated, letting his arm drop to his side again.

How was he supposed to face him again? It was late and unannounced. It's been years.

Pull yourself together, he thought. He pursed his lips and knocked.

The very sound startled him—he jumped and stepped away from the door, facing the opposite wall. His hand covered his mouth.

"Just a minute!" called a voice from inside.

"Okay," he mumbled. "Okay, okay, okay..."
Just as you rehearsed. Just say what you practiced.

The door opened slowly, and when Miles heard it the words exploded and he blurted out, looking away.
"I know this isn't going to be very easy, but I was just out there all alone in the world and I was just so scared, and all I could think about was how I had no place in this world and then I realized that I did, I did have a place in this world and that was with you, so I flew and I took a taxi to get to you because I had to see you." He turned toward him. Thank God you're—"

The man who looked back at him was not who he expected. He was slouching, wearing baggy, smelly clothes. His face was unshaven and he wore a beanie—the man was disheveled. The man was not who Miles was talking to.

He spluttered. "Oh—oh...you—you're not—" he opened his phone, checked his map. He glanced at the area in which he stood, the area he was almost certain he knew well.
"This...this is the place..."

The man seemed just as confused. He was tired and his eyes were heavy, but he leaned against the doorframe, watching Miles struggle to figure out what the hell happened.

"You're not..." he cleared his throat. The nerves seemed to die down, but now he was worried. "Does Phoenix Wright live here? I'm looking for Phoenix Wright."

The man furrowed his brow. "You're looking for—"

"—looking for Phoenix Wright, yes. He lives here. I thought. But..." it started dawning on him, slowly and surely. A reality, or, a flaw to his impulse that he called a plan.
"He...he doesn't, does he?"

The man didn't respond.

"I'm...I'm terribly sorry," Edgeworth attempted to recover. He pushed up his glasses and turned away, but his face was pinned than before. "I...I made a mistake. You must think I'm a fool."

The man didn't respond. Edgeworth couldn't make himself stop talking.

"I just thought he'd be here. I thought he'd be here, always."

How was he supposed to recover? Was he going to have to explain this whole ordeal to a stranger?

"Do you know him? He wears a blue suit. He has black, spiky hair. Firm build. Stupid grin. Do you know him?" He wasn't getting any clues, not making any progress. "He's an attorney. He's one of the best, I think."