Static

6. Loom Of Melancholies

The first thing Miles Edgeworth would ever notice in every day, it would be none other than the paleness of everything around him.

It was a bright day, no other than the rest. No matter how blue the sky is, it has the grayest skies whatsoever for him.

But red was on his feet. No. It was all over her. Like it was relishing its freedom by getting out of her frame, glowing out as it fades to black. As the void he wanted in his ever-tensive mind and the road's rough gravel texture.

He hated that color. The pure drop of the blood. Of someone's life dripping away.

While he carried her all the way to safety, he was smeared in red. While it did seep in his clothes, it was relatively dry and cold by now. The warmth all but a mere ghost of its own. He shivered inside his soul.

The trial was a blaze of rearing life. No one noticed the reddish ghost which was now deeply hidden in his suit. Theirs was nothing. It was solid, no one hiding. Their colors sounding alight.

He hated himself. For wearing such weariness hidden from the rest of the world.

Still, he pressed on. The glow of his own color joined the flight. His eyes were still seeing the paleness of everything, as if nothing else mattered other than the color of red.

As the coals cooled down, so did he got down the road of void. Wanting to get to the white distance ahead of himself. The red ghost in his suit mostly got darker by now, turning into a dried grime of grief.

He came back where the red ghost got onto him. A claim it once did, and it vanished as he saw nothing. Nothing but the same void the road was making. The one that he must walk on.

He had to see. He had to see that unrelenting ghost. For his mind was getting haunted already.