My life started as a fairly normal one. I lived in a small house in the countryside of Victorian Britain. My mother had died during childbirth, and I was fascinated with the concept of death ever since. When I went to university I was able to conduct further research upon the subject and learn about the intricacies of modern science, and in my case particularly the study of biology. I went onto further study on a scholarship and eventually started to conduct my own research into my own studies. I made frequent trips to my local morgue and found few new discovery's about the life after death. I ran out of funding after the first year and pleaded for more, but these short-minded people didn't see the importance of my work. I searched for many months for new contractors, yet I was unsuccessful in my endeavours. After many restless weeks i thought my work was doomed to fail before it even started. Then I was offered 2 years of funding for my work, he saw its importance and knew that my work had to be completed. I took the funding the instant it was offered to me and travelled to Italy to continue my work. It was a decision i had made out of excitement. I learnt a lot about stories of the dead and about different beliefs of the afterlife. I went through religions and sought an answer, but none had the clear one way answer that I needed.
The first year of my funding went towards outwards research, the second started with me travelling back to England and conducting experiments that i hoped would help me on my persistent drive to find what i was looking for. Later that year I made one major breakthrough that changed the course of my research drastically. I found that instead of searching for the answers I needed someone, or something, to tell me them.