But for the reader’s sake, I shall start from the beginning, both how and before I ended up in that huge house, on that mystifying night.

First of all, I was what some people might consider an orphan. I have no idea who my biological parents were, and I have no memory of them whatsoever.
However, I didn’t lead a life similar as to the orphans you see in movies—you know, the kind that are forced to scrub the floor and do the dishes all day, only to be fed cold mush for all of their labour.
All in all, I guess you could say I lived a pretty normal life growing up in the town of Pleasantville, Indiana.
Though I had no trace of my biological family, I still had an adoptive father in my life.
He was one of the many people who had heard about me when I was mysteriously found alone in a room at Pleasantville Nurturing Hospital, a baby wrapped in a multicolored blanket with nursrey rhyme characters embroidered on it.
There was but a single note attached:Please take care of Essie, God’s little Miracle.