Esme did not remember much about her parents.

Except for the existing memories she has of them by sound, not by sight.

Although it is vague, she can still recall in fragments how both her parents looked. Her father was a tall and handsome man. Lovely and gentle, while her mother was of average height and had a beautiful smile. They were good people, kind and considerate. And they loved their daughter very much.

If Esme would close her eyes, she could still hear her mother's voice humming her a gentle lullaby as she cradled her little girl in her arms.

Though Esme could no longer recall the exact details of her mother's face -visually, she can however recall the sounds of the woman that was her mother.

She knew each and every sigh her mother made. And Esme knew the many meanings in which manner the sound was created.

A low sigh usually means that she was being too rambunctious. And that repetitively banging her doll's feet against the wall was not a good idea.

An exasperated sigh usually means that her mother has had enough, and that she has reached her limit. Esme as a child, did manage to throw some of the most colorful array of tantrums a child could conjure. It was mainly because she was no longer allowed outside. And this, made her deeply sad.

Sometimes when it rained, she would find a way to climb up her bedroom window. She did not open it of course, (Her mother saw to it that it was locked.) but rather, she would press her ear against the cold glass, just to hear the sound of the rain. That little tapping by her windowsill somehow made her feel better, in a way.

It reassured her that the world still did exist, even if she could not see it.

Esme, like any other child, was frightened of the dark. She would awake in the middle of the night from a nightmare, and when she opened her eyes, she couldn't tell whether she was awake or asleep. What comfort is the light of a lamp to one who cannot see it?

Those long nights of listening to the wind howl outside her window still haunts her.

It was not that her parents did not wish her to be happy and to play outside like any normal child. It was a matter of fear, from both parents. Particularly her mother.

Esme's accident left both her parents incredibly distressed. And they found themselves in a constant state of paranoia, they felt that if they left Esme unattended, another accident would happen.

No one took it more to heart, than her mother. During the first year since Esme's accident, she barely left the child's side. She was with her daughter everyday. She prepared all of her favorite meals; read to her stories before sleeping, and even made a habit of waking up in the dead of night to check on her. Some inner maternal need to protect her child. She did not let anyone know of the guilt she carried within her. Somehow her mother felt that what happened to her child was of her own doing. She did not forgive herself for having let her child go through such an ordeal. The guilt was so great, that over time she felt as though she were the one who took away Esme's sight. Her daughter had merely disappeared from her view that fateful day, and then...

Her husband could do little to console his despondent wife.

From what Esme can recall about her father, he was a quiet man. A giant of a being, but surprisingly gentle.

He loved to go out on long walks, and he usually took Esme with him. And those were the only times she was actually allowed outside since her accident.

He would sit Esme on his broad shoulders, with her little legs dangling over his chest.

She can still remember his voice,

"Can you still remember the color of the sky, love?" He would ask in his deep voice, he would begin to walk more slowly so she could enjoy the country breeze.

She would look up in hope of seeing the sky. Something. Anything.

But there was nothing. She would squint her eyes to no avail.

"Wus' it bwue, daddy?" She would reply in her tiny voice.

"Yes, that's my girl." He would say, and he'd start walking again. "What color are Mummy's roses?"

Esme could feel the warmth of the sun she could not see, as she tried to remember the image of the flower.

"Mummy has pink woses' daddy." She would reply. Even going as far as recalling the image of that flower on the day of her accident, just to be sure.

"You're a very smart girl, my Esme." He would fondly say.

"Daddy?"

"Yes dear?"

"Tell me the colors again. I don't wunt' to fowget." She would say to him.

"Alright, sweetheart. Close your eyes,"

She did as she was told. She heard him speak again.

"Listen closely, my angel."

She could feel him walking again.

"The sky is blue, as blue as your Mummy's eyes. The trees are green," His voice sometimes sounded as if it came from a dream.

They passed by a large tree. He paused and stretched out his long arm to a low branch. His fingers plucked a single leaf and handed it to his daughter.

She could feel the foreign texture in her hand.

"There are a lot of different shades of green, sweetheart. There is the green from the ocean, the green of a granny-smith apple and the green from an Emerald."

"Wut's an Emerald daddy?"

She heard him laugh. He had such a gentle voice in spite of his height. "You'll understand when you're older, my pretty one."

Eventually, with time, and a little persistence. Esme learned to use her sense of hearing and her sense of touch. Gradually building her inner instinct to guide her, and to compensate for the eyes she lost. She found that, if she wanted to walk around the house, she'd have to do it by walking close to the walls, and preferably barefooted. She realized that their home's flooring consisted of different textures. The place with the scent of spices, bread and old flour; with the callous wooden floorboards was the kitchen.

The smooth marble with the soft carpet, and the scent of Lavenders, was their foyer.

The smell of paper, old leather and tobacco, was her father's study.

Finding everything else became easier. More or less.

When Esme turned six, she did not know she was going to lose something far more precious than her sight.

It started on one afternoon. The day was bright and clear. There was a jovial wind, and the sun's rays shone a more gentler manner. Who knew that such signs from nature could tell a lie, somehow softening the inevitable that lay ahead.

Her mother went into town, to purchase some materials for her sewing. On that day, of all days, it rained.

She had no parasol to shield her from the elements.

Somehow when her mother returned in the late afternoon, she could tell something was wrong.

A few days later, Esme noticed that it was her father who was tucking her in.

"Where's Mummy?" She asked. Her father hovered above her as he gently fluffed her pillow and covered her with the blanket.

He was silent.

She felt him tucking the sheets around her, "Mummy's sick darling. And so daddy has to take care of her."

She felt him kiss her on the forehead.

"Will Mummy be alright, daddy?"

He didn't answer her question. He looked at her for a long moment. "I love you, sweetheart. Go to sleep."

She heard the bedroom door close.

After that, everything started to change.

About a week since her mother fell ill, her father hired a governess to watch over her.

Esme could not particularly remember what her governess sounded like, but she didn't forget her name.

Her name was Rose.

She was very sweet and kind to Esme, and acted as sort of like an older sister to the young child. It did not take long for the two to become close.

Each day, Esme's father grew more distant. Till he eventually stopped visiting his child in the nursery completely.

Her father did not tell her that her mother's health was declining rapidly.

One early morning. Just shortly before seven. Rose left Esme in her room to prepare her breakfast.

Esme was sitting quietly on her bed. She wore a pink dress with matching pink ribbons. She had removed her shoes.

She wanted to see her mother. She ached desperately for her mother's voice. She missed her very much, it was already beginning to feel like a long time since she had spent time with her. After all, her father merely said she was sick. He did not say, she could not visit her.

She slipped off her bed and slowly made her way out.

Esme made her way down the long corridors. She kept close to the walls and held out her hand to feel for her mother's bedroom door. The wood was Oak, and it felt extremely smooth to touch; the door handle was more circular if not smaller, compared to the ones used with the other rooms.

It took her exactly four and a half minutes to find it.

She stood on her little toes to reach the doorknob. She turned the handle and pushed the door open.

It did not occur to her that the room was incredibly silent.

Esme walked inside.

"Mummy?"

There was no answer.

"Mummy, are you awake?" She called out softly.

She could smell her mother's favorite perfume.

Esme kept on walking till she stumbled on something.

It was soft, large and somewhat rectangular. She realized it was her mother's bed.

She could sense that her mother was asleep. She moved a little further till she could feel the night stand.

Esme felt that something was sticking out from her mother's bedside.

She reached out and touched it.

It was her mother's hand.

She shook it gently, "Mummy. Mummy, wake up, its time for bweakfast."

Her mother was so still. Why was she so still?

She shook her mother's hand harder this time, "Mummy, are you awake?"

Her mother did not answer.

She didn't understand what was happening. Before she knew it, she was crying as she continued to shake her mother awake.

Just down the hall, her father heard the sobs escaping from the room.

He found himself practically running out of his study room, and into their bedroom.

"No. . ." Her father said as he stood outside the doorway.

Esme could hear her father's voice as he entered the room.

She turned in the direction of the voice, "Daddy, please wake Mummy. Its time for bweakfast." She sobbed.

She could hear her father breathing heavily as he picked up his daughter in his arms.

When he spoke, she did not imagine a voice could sound so broken, so dismal. Not from the man she deemed so strong and brave.

"You're mother needs to rest now, Esme."

She heard him call for Rose.

"Daddy-"

"Just go and have breakfast with Rose, daddy will see you in a little while."

Rose arrived at the doorstep. She saw the dead woman in the bed. Before she could scream, she saw Esme's father. She looked into his eyes as he shook his head, and she finally understood.

Her father handed her to the young governess.

"Rose, Esme is ready to eat breakfast now."

"Yes, sir." Rose replied in a voice so small it was barely audible.

"No!" Esme yelled as she hung on to the door frame. "Please, daddy-"

"Take her downstairs, Rose."

"Daddy, wake her up!" She was beginning to cry again.

Her father gently pried her hands off from the door frame, "You have to go now." His voice sounded tight, painful.

She could remember being carried out of the room.

"Mummy wake up! Please wake up! Mummy!"

She was screaming as she choked on her own sobs.

She didn't understand why her mother didn't wake up.

Everything else became a blur. As if she had become some sort of phantom, spinning in a theoretical carousel.

She was never told that her mother died from complications due to pneumonia. The doctors could do little to save her life.

And no one expected, that merely two days after his wife's death, Esme's father was seen by one of the servants entering the nearby woodlands - a pistol in his hand.

A/N: Hey guys! I hope this Chapter wasn't too intense for you. And I hope you all enjoyed it. And Esme's early childhood started in the early 1900s just so you know. :)

You guys know what to do. ;)

God bless!

Chapter 3 won't be too far behind. ;)