Tears streamed down Esme's face, each drop burning with the weight of her forgotten past. Her chest felt as though it was being ripped apart, and her heart thudded painfully against her ribcage. She couldn't believe it—she had forgotten her mother's face. How could she, of all people, have lost the memory of something so fundamental, so deeply tied to her identity?
The woman, the one who looked like her but wasn't, stood there holding the younger Esme. That memory, so vivid and so warm, stung her now. It was a bittersweet ache, a longing she hadn't even realized she harbored. But just as Esme felt like she was being swallowed by the crushing weight of her emotions, something unexpected happened.
A voice, cheerful yet laced with a sweet playfulness, cut through the haze like a lifeline. It was a voice Esme knew well—a voice she had also forgotten. The sound of it stirred something deep inside her, something so familiar that it made her heart stop for a moment.
