Miles jolted awake, beads of sweat seeping across his hairline, his pale hands trembling as he gripped the heavy sheets. He had seen that horrible dream again; he had once again revisited that terrible nightmare. But the boy knew better than to scream out this time, lest his new "father" burst in to reprimand him. He put his head on his pillow in curled up into a tight ball under his sheets, trying to distance himself from the demons. But try as he could, Miles could not fall back asleep, haunted until the first cracks of dawn seeped through the heavy draperies and banished the night.

"Lift your head up," growled von Karma at lessons that morning. He rapped his gold pen under Miles' chin and immediately, the boy raised his head. He bit the edge his lip to keep from sighing, which he knew von Karma hated. He had stayed just two shorts days in the von Karma mansion and already, he knew he would never fulfill the family's creed of perfection. After all, he ate too fast, his footsteps were too heavy, his fingernails were dirty, he swung his arms as he walked, his hair was messy, and he was too dense to learn the complicated lessons. Miles struggled to comprehend to difficult legal terms and could never seem to piece together how each policy worked. On the other hand, five-year old Franziska seemed to learn with ease, absorbing and retaining every one of her father's words like a sponge.

The boy glanced over at his "sister" sitting across from him at the table who was practicing writing her neat, cursive letters with a thin calligraphy pen. Her scroll was smooth with decorative loops and hooks, but absolutely legible. It was more beautiful than his own clumsy scrawl could ever be. Disheartened, Miles turned his attention back to "Evidence Law", opened to Chapter Five, Section Seven.

Suddenly, there was a subtle vibration through the solid square table. Miles' eyes darted forward and he instinctively gripped the thick legs of his chair. The tremors grew stronger and a soft rattling echoed throughout the library as the thousands of books surrounding the walls shook in their shelves.

It was an earthquake. A frequent occurrence back in California.

But this time, Miles reacted as if he had never experienced one before. A paralyzing stiffness gripped his entire body and yet, his heart raced with heavy thumps. His face blanched and a cold wave rippled from his chest to the tips of his fingers. As the seismic tremors continued to rock the mansion, images of his last earthquake reeled through his head.

He was in the small elevator, holding his father's hand. The defense attorney was sullen and quiet having just lost a case to a notoriously ruthless prosecutor. Across from him was the short, scrawny bailiff who was holding on the bar that ran across the elevator's perimeter. Miles glanced at the lighted display above the metal door. 5…4….3….just two more floors to go…

And then the tremors began. They started small, but grew more intense. Miles could feel his father's long fingers curl tightly around his as he led them both in front of the door. The bailiff set his eyes on the door as well, his face a pasty white, as if he had just fallen into a bowl of flour. They were no longer vibrations; a heavy rumbling filled the elevator as the small box jumped and fell violently.

Suddenly with a deafening thump, the world went pitch black. The shaking stopped.

Miles sat for hours in the tiny dark box. He could still feel his father's hand around his. The attorney spoke to his son gently, telling him every story he could think of. The two had long forgotten about the lonely bailiff who was trapped with them. But even as Miles listened, engrossed in the fantastic tales, there was no doubt the air in the darkness had changed. He panted as he struggled to grab a full lungful of oxygen. His mind drifted away from his father's voice; his memory went dark for moments.

And then he could hear the labored breath of the bailiff coming closer as he closed around his father. It was only then that Miles could feel their hands separate. Low screams and a violent argument, the boy tried to find reach his father in the darkness when his hand grazed a cold object on the ground. He picked it up as the dispute escalated.

BANG.

Miles heart pounded, his entire body trembled with each shake. His mind went blank; he forgot where he was, what he was doing, who he was with. All that was in his mind was the horrendous memory, replaying continuously in vivid detail. And trying to escape his ghosts, he ran. He leaped out of his chair, letting it topple behind him, bolted out of the library, through the long winding corridors, and finally out the back doors. He blindly felt his way behind the shrubbery framing the vast estate, fell to his knees and curled up in a fetal position, kneeling behind two manicured green bushes. He gasped for air as he sobbed, the salty tears masking his face. His knees buckled. The boy fell off his feet and weakly rolled on his heaving side, letting his cheek settle into the ground. He could taste the rough grit of the earthy soil on his tongue.

"No need to be afraid, that wasn't a big one."

Miles ran the back of a dirty hand across his eyes and looked up. Through the sheet of moisture, he could see a young man, no older than twenty, with hair the color of golden straw and darkened skin from working under the sun all day. The man's limbs were long and bulged slightly with muscle. He wore a stained grey t-shirt and a pair of tattered denim shorts that had an assortment of small shovels and hoes protruding from the wide pockets.

The tanned man offered a hand to Miles and pulled the boy up to his feet. As soon as Miles had balanced himself firmly back on his heels, the man took the boy's thin hand his own muscled and rough fingers. "Allow me to introduce myself," he said formally, shaking hands, "I'm Hoban, the garden boy."

"Oh, um, I'm Miles Edgeworth. Um, I'm Manfred von Karma's new protégé," the boy responded. He suddenly broke the handshake and backed away slightly, remembering von Karma's rule about servants.

i"Avoid communication with the lowly people who work at this estate. Their dirty hands are here for the sole purpose of serving the von Karma creed and you are not to disrupt their work with your mindless chatter,"/i he had said with disdain.

"Yes, I've heard of Mr. von Karma's promising new talent. Delighted to meet you, Mr. Edgeworth, sir."

Miles just nodded. He was still keeping a far distance from the servant and tried to distract himself by fiddling with his thumbs. But, he couldn't help but to notice the sweet honey voice, the wide, genuine grin, and the soothing quality about the very man. The gardener's very presence helped the terror from his haunting recollection pass.

Hoban chuckled a little. "A little quiet are we? I suppose you would be living in that house," he said. He took a moment to look the boy up and down, who was covered with dirt and moisture. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen; his cheeks still bore the streaks of where his tears had fell. "So what brings you out here?" he inquired.

"Oh, nothing," the boy answered, still playing with his thumbs. He paused but knew that the gardener could see right through his transparent fib. "The earthquake, I guess," he admitted.

"Unexpected, wasn't it? We don't get many here in Germany. But if I'm not mistaken, you're used to them in America, aren't you?"

"Yes, I guess so," Miles whispered. He looked down at the ground, trying to avoid the garden boy's hazel gaze.

"Well whatever scared you, it doesn't matter," Hoban said, waving away the comment dismissively. Then he took a few steps and put his face close to the boy's ear. His voice dropped to a low whisper, "But I wouldn't be surprised if Mr. von Karma was the thing that frightened you."

The boy smiled. It was the first time he had smiled since he had arrived at the estate.

"Let's go inside and get you cleaned up, shall we?" Hoban said, stepping away. He walked across the cobble stone porch and opened the ornate wooden door to the back of the house. He waved an open palm towards the inside. "Right this way, Mr. Edgeworth."

The boy walked across the porch towards the house. Just as he set a foot inside the door, he turned back around and looked the gardener straight in the eye.

"I'm kind of getting sick of the formalities. Please, just call me Miles."