In hindsight, Diego would point to the first day he walked free as the day it all went to pieces. Ironically, the bustle and crowd of the prison where he'd eaten and lived packed in with a thousand other inmates kept his mind occupied. Kept him in the moment. Nights, he'd slept with one eye open and a nail file clenched in his fist, lest his con man of a cellmate get any ideas.

He doesn't remember the guy's name. Something generic: Pritchard Skellington or some such.

His little home in a quiet village is the opposite. He'd purchased it with a fraction of his settlement and still had plenty to live on. It's a convenience and a curse: for the first month, the grocer is the only person he sees. And then, he schedules a weekly delivery, and from that point on, he is truly alone.

Sometimes, Maya or Iris writes him a letter, and one time Pearl, in large, shaky handwriting and with the page covered in doodles. See you soon, Mr. Spooky Prosecutor, she'd written, and his mouth had curved into a creaky smile: her spelling had improved since her days of misspelling "Ami".

He won't be seeing her soon. These days, none but the postmaster knows where to find him, and instead, the letters are addressed to a P.O. box and forwarded. All three girls like to doodle, he notices. He wonders if Mia did too.

He thinks about Mia frequently, collecting and reliving the scraps of his short time with her. With no one to interrupt him or distract him, she occupies his thoughts from morning 'til night, day after day, week after week. Wandering the from room to room with her image an unyielding presence in his mind, he can almost pretend that she shares the empty house with him.

As time passes, he does more than merely remember.

At first, he merely grows wistful: if only they'd tried more, taken the time for laughter and pleasure. They'd been so busy with their cases and the threat of Dahlia, free in the world somewhere. "When all this is over, kitten, I'll sweep you away," Diego had promised. How he wished he'd done it for real.

He allows his mind to wander. If he could do it over, what would he say?


In one world, he says I'm yours.

He makes meticulous, devoted plans to sweep her off her feet. He presents himself at her office in his sharpest vest, his hair standing fiercely on end. He comes bearing three gifts like a knight of yore: in one hand, a box of the finest chocolates (imported, or perhaps homemade); in the other, a mug of her favorite latte (an abomination drowned in cream).

The third and final gift awaits at his home. He leads her to his apartment and hands her a little silver key. She looks at him, puzzled, and he teasingly opens the top button of his button-up, giving her a peek of the necklace underneath: an innocent chain in an elegant design, clasped by a simple silver loop. Her mouth goes round with surprise and sudden understanding as she recognizes the collar, and he says "I'm yours to do as you wish."

When she takes the key with trembling fingers, it's an acceptance.

And ever after, he belongs to her. The collar feels alive against his skin, as if she's touching him all day long. He rubs it absently in his office and feels her fingers on his skin. He catches a glimpse of it in the mirror and sees her smile. He hears it clinking faintly and he hears her laughter. He feels it swaying as he walks, and it reminds him of the woman on the other end, the one who holds the key, the one he returns to each day.

It's calm, comforting, perfect. The thought of it makes him smile.

- O -

In another universe, he says I'm sorry.

This time, she takes the key with a righteous glint in her eye. "Look at all that I and my family suffered for your mistake," she says, her voice a shard of ice. "This is your punishment."

She binds him and tightens the straps: snug, but not painful. The air is cold on his skin, and goosebumps prickle up along his arms. She is methodical, standing by his head. He can hear the fabric rustling inches from his ear; he cranes his head but he can't see. He writhes in anticipation.

When she's finally ready, she stands next to the bed, just out of reach. He stretches as far as he can reach, his fingers millimeters from her thigh, and groans in frustration. "What have you done to deserve me?" she asks with an arched eyebrow.

The bed shifts as she sits next to him. He twists his hand to reach for her, but she stops him with a fierce glare. "Did I say you could touch?" she asks sternly.

"No," he whispers, cowed.

"Keep your hands to yourself," she orders as she reaches for him. Her slender fingers trace delicately down his chest: tantalizingly warm, just a hint of skin, and not nearly enough. He fights the urge to push up into her touch. Her fingernails trace gently over his chest. Seeing his predicament, she smirks in satisfaction. She lowers her head.

"Not year, my dear," she says, stepping back abruptly. He keens at her absence.

She's back not a minute later, an unusually long magatama in hand. He watches, half fascinated and half appalled. She frees his right arm and hands it to him. "You have much to atone for," she orders.

Mia watches with bright, hungry eyes. Diego surfaces from that fantasy sweating.

- O -

In his heart of hearts, he says I love you.

He imagines his passionate self slamming the office door open while Mia is engrossed in case files. She startles, her chest heaving as she jolts upright. Her papers spill across the floor. He sweeps in and takes her hand and settles her on the couch, where he takes her in his arms and kisses her passionately.

Her lips are warm and perfect under his. He kisses along her jawline, tracing the shape of the face he can never forget. Next, he moves to the soft, fragile skin of her neck. She throws her head back and gasps as he finds her pulse, alive and beating, and sucks a mark there. She writhes in his arms, and he relishes in every inch of her moving against him: the shape of her shoulders fitting into his chest, the smooth skin of her back in his hands, her legs shifting. Overcome with emotion, he kneels before her and presses her palms to his lips.

He emerges from this one in tears, heartbroken, his chest heavy and his throat raw.


One day, there she is on his doorstep. Mia Fey.

Ten years have passed since he last saw her, since she'd exorcized Dahlia's spirit and found peace. Seven of those years he'd spent behind bars, and the last three in darkness, passing the days alone in his little house, with not even law to serve as a distraction. Weeks going by where he'd never see another face, more existing than living, a shade in a colorless world. His dreams and fantasies are so much more vivid.

At first glance, he is sure that Mia is wishful thinking; then, he remembers the channeling. Her hair is brown, so he reasons that Pearl must be hosting her spirit. Still, something tugs at his mind. Slowly, the details catch up to him: She's pale, paler than Pearl, as if she'd gone years without seeing the sun. Her hair is mixed with gray, and her face is lined with the beginnings of wrinkles. The clothes are different too, loose and worn, as if she'd gotten them secondhand and in a hurry.

"How did you find me?" he hears himself asking.

"The usual way that Phoenix Wright finds anything," she answers. "Waiting until the postal clerk stepped away and sneaking a look through the forwarding addresses."

A pretty solid explanation for his subconscious to come up with on the fly, he decides. He's lost his mind, descended into madness in the gentlest way. It's not so bad to live in a beautiful fairy tale. "What's my kitten doing on my doorstep?" he asks next, playing along to draw the fantasy out.

For all the differences, her mannerisms are the same. There's that eyeroll he loves so much, the annoyed huff of breath he remembers so well. "You're not crazy; yes, Pearl was involved; no, not in the way you think," Mia fires off in rapid succession. "I lived, as you did."

"That's impossible," Diego says. "They channeled you. Maya and Pearl—I saw them! I saw you. . . you couldn't have been channeled if you weren't. . . ." he trails off, unwilling to finish that sentence.

"In a way, I did die that day," Mia explains. "When I died, my heart stopped, and my spirit was severed from my body. However. . . en route to the hospital, my heart was restarted. My body was stabilized. It lay in a coma all these years, breathing, but with no spirit living in it, I had no hope of waking. That is. . . until Pearl."

Diego nods, throat too tight to speak.

"She truly is the strongest spirit medium our family has ever produced," Mia says, warm with pride. "She revived an ancient channeling ritual from fragments of notes. By pushing her spiritual energy into my sleeping body, she channeled me into myself, reuniting my physical and spiritual pieces. I'm alive now. I can stay."

"Mia," Diego says, his voice choked. It's too much to hope for, but he can't look away. Trembling, he reaches out a hand, and she brushes her fingertips against his.

It's the barest glancing touch, yet more real and solid than the shadow-world he's occupied the last ten years and more. His home comes alive in brilliant color around him. His skin tingles with sensation, every nerve ending coming awake. He takes her hand.

He leads her over the threshold with his hands feather-light, as gently as if she's cracked glass, shattered and pieced together, impossibly fragile. She scoffs and tightens her grip around his. He says everything he dreamed of saying, I'm yours and I'm sorry and I love you and more, and she says—

"Show me."

And, oh, isn't that a page out of his deepest fantasies? He takes her to his bedroom where she scans over the bare sheets and minimal furniture in a quick glance. Her shoulders tighten. She's as sharp and observant as before, he notes proudly. When she turns to him with a question on her lips, he holds up a finger. "Tomorrow," he says, and she nods.

He touches her hair. He sighs as his fingers glide over the strands: it's as silky as he remembers. He runs his hands over her scalp, sifting through her hair until her face relaxes into a smile. Her lips crinkle at the corners of her mouth. It's entrancing, and he leans in to kiss the little lines. His fingers find the scar where she was struck and stitched back together. He traces over it from end to end.

"Does it hurt?" he asks.

She shakes her head. She's touching his face with wonder, cupping his cheeks and stroking his stubble. She reaches for his visor with slow, steady hands, giving him plenty of time to recoil. When he doesn't, she lifts it from his face and sees the thin line across his eyebrows, the scar from where Dahlia had sliced him in Misty's body.

"Does this?" she counters.

"Kitten, the only thing that hurts is how much I missed you."

She rolls her eyes at that, but she smiles too, so grins in triumph. His wandering hands travel to her neck, lingering in the perfect curve of it. Next is the jut of her collarbones and her rounded shoulders cupped in his palm. His hands glide over the velvet of her sides and her stomach, coming to rest in the shallow dip at her waist.

He spends an hour exploring, learning and memorizing her reactions. The shape of her arms and legs is different, the muscles thinned from a decade bedridden that physical therapy couldn't erase. Other things are exactly the same: the huff of her breath, her giggle when he touches the ticklish spot behind her knee, and the taste of her when he kisses her.

Afterwards, he can't bear to let her go, lest she dissolve into smoke and imagination. "Stay with me. Please," he begs.

"I'm real," Mia promises, running her fingers through his hair. "You couldn't feel me if I weren't. I'm touching you. I must be real," she reasons.

"Objection," Diego murmurs. "Right now you're here, but when you stand to go. . . when your hands leave my skin, this could all be a false memory, cruelly conjured by an old man's lonely mind."

"Then this will stay with you to remind you," Mia says, pulling a silk ribbon from her pocket. Diego swallows as she fastens it around his neck. It lays in the hollow of his throat, where the ring of his collar sat in his fantasies.

"You always know exactly what to do to make a man feel special," he says adoringly.

"I'm not done yet," she says, pulling something from her purse. "This too. You'll feel strange for a time, but as you acclimate, it will ground you."

Diego's mouth falls open in shock.

A smooth, green, gleaming rock rests in her hands. It's smaller and shorter than he imagined. "That's real?" he croaks, his mouth dry. Resigned, he takes it and strokes its smooth surface. It's surprisingly warm, he notes.

"What? What are you—no!" Mia snatches it sharply away. "My god, I feel a headache coming on," she sighs. She ties it firmly to the ribbon around his neck. "It sits under your shirt. I charged it with spiritual energy, so it will be a warm presence."

"Oh," Diego laughs. "Right. Of course that's what it's for."

"What did you think?"

"I thought you were going to peg me with it," he says sincerely.

"You're impossible," Mia grumbles. But when the rock pulses with energy and a single lock appears over her heart, Diego knows he's forgiven.

"I love you too," he replies, and the lock shatters.