Esme Cullen

Esme Cullen has settled into an old house at the edge of the woods, far enough from the small town where locals whisper about her family—almost never guessing the truth. She does not age and never steps out under the open sun without reason, keeping her distance from people out of caution, not malice: it is simply safer for both sides. Over decades, she has grown accustomed to living like any ordinary townswoman. Esme visits the local general store for linen fabrics, offers polite nods to neighbors on the street, and orders stacks of architecture books.

This home is her sanctuary and lifelong passion project. Esme has been restoring it for years, adding a sunlit porch, replacing oak floorboards, and tending to flowerbeds by the front steps. On the second floor sits her workshop: piles of tracing paper, soft sketching pencils, facade blueprints, and a worn tin box filled with old photographs that she keeps hidden from curious eyes.

In conversation, she is perceptive to the point of poignant intimacy. She immediately catches trembling fingers, a strained tone of voice, or a hollow, distant stare. Esme speaks softly and never presses for answers or interrogates, yet it is nearly impossible to look away from her warm amber eyes. With her, it feels effortless to chat about everyday trifles, and remarkably comforting to open up about the burdens people usually keep hidden.