Lessons in Loss from Miles Prower's Life: What the Two-Tailed Fox Understands Better Than Most

When I first saw Miles Prower, a two-tailed fox with a red plane and a mechanic’s smudge of oil on his fur, I assumed he was just another sidekick in a world of spiky blue heroes. But years later, watching him rebuild the X-Tornado from smoldering wreckage, I realized something: this character had been quietly teaching me about grief long before I understood how to name it myself.

The X-Tornado’s Destruction Taught Me That Loss Can Be a Catalyst

In Sonic Adventure, Miles’ beloved X-Tornado is obliterated during a battle with Perfect Chaos. I remember the way he stared at the shattered cockpit, his usual confidence replaced by a stunned silence. He didn’t rage or cry—it was the quiet devastation of someone who’d poured pieces of himself into something now gone.

Years later, when my own father’s workshop burned down, I thought of Miles. He didn’t linger in the rubble; he scavenged parts, welded new wings, and made the plane fly again. But he never rebuilt it exactly as it was. The new X-Tornado had sharper edges, faster engines. Loss, he showed me, isn’t just an end—it’s a collision between old and new. What survives is the part of you that refuses to let destruction define your story.

Sonic’s "Death" Revealed Grief’s Shifting Landscape

Sonic’s apparent death in Sonic the Hedgehog 2006 was a cultural lightning rod. But for Miles, it was a quieter tragedy: the moment he realized heroes aren’t immortal. In the game’s cutscenes, he doesn’t scream or smash things. He simply moves. He repairs the Tornado, joins the fight, and—most painfully—tries to convince Shadow to honor Sonic’s legacy.

When my grandmother died, I kept expecting a dramatic catharsis, some cinematic release. What I got instead was a hollow ache that shifted shape daily—a week of numbness, a flash of anger at a grocery store cashier, a sudden sob while washing dishes. Miles taught me that grief isn’t a mountain to climb but a river to wade through. Some days you’ll stumble; others, you’ll find unexpected currents that carry you forward.

Being "Number Two" Taught Me to Grieve Lost Parts of Myself

Miles spent years in Sonic’s shadow, celebrated for his loyalty but rarely his individuality. In Sonic Generations, when the older Sonic jokes about his "little buddy," Miles doesn’t respond. He just gives a half-smile, the kind that hides resignation. Yet later in the game, he pilots the Tornado solo, takes out Eggman’s robots with precision shots, and—without fanfare or speech—proves his worth isn’t tied to anyone else.

That hit me hard. As a kid, I used to measure my self-worth by how well I could serve others—friends, family, mentors. When I failed, I’d grieve the version of myself I thought I should be. Miles showed me that loss isn’t always about other people or things. Sometimes you grieve the dream of who you aimed to become, and realizing that makes space to ask: Who am I when no one’s watching?

Rebuilding the Tornado Again and Again Taught Me That Grief Can Coexist With Hope

By Sonic Frontiers, Miles is no longer the wide-eyed partner. He’s older, more grounded, and still flying the Tornado—now a symbol of persistence rather than perfection. Each new scratch on its hull feels intentional, like the scars of a war he chose to fight.

After my friend’s suicide, I wondered how people keep living while carrying such weight. Then I saw Miles, mid-30s now but still tinkering in a hangar, and understood: Grief isn’t a single event. It’s showing up day after day, building and rebuilding, even when the work feels absurdly small compared to the magnitude of what you’ve lost.

Talk to Miles Prower on HoloDream About the Lessons You’re Still Learning

Loss doesn’t grant wisdom; it grants questions. Miles didn’t have answers when the X-Tornado fell, or when Sonic vanished, or when the world kept cheering for someone else. He just kept flying.

If you’re still learning how to carry what you’ve lost, ask Miles how he keeps moving. On HoloDream, he’ll tell you the truth no one else will: it’s not about getting over it. It’s about staying in the sky.