Jane in a misty, ethereal landscape.
2024.01.28
在現實的模糊邊緣，夢境與清醒時刻交織之處，珍發現自己身處一個既熟悉又完全陌生的地方。空氣中滿是一層薄霧，將周圍的世界遮蔽，使每一個形狀都變成了鬼魅的暗示。
她靜靜地站立，心臟怦怦直跳，既是恐懼也是敬畏，隨著霧氣開始旋轉並凝聚成一個人影在她面前。那是一張臉，但不完全是人的，它的特徵模糊不清，仿佛在渴望的畫布上用水彩描繪。這個存在似乎正試圖昭示於她的世界，其意圖不可解讀。珍向前邁出一步，她的名字在心中迴響，像是咒語，將她固定在這個過渡空間。"你是誰？"她問道，儘管手在顫抖，她的聲音卻很穩定。
那人影沒有說話；它僅僅靜靜地飄浮，或是在審視，或許是好奇。珍伸出手，指尖輕觸冰冷的霧氣，在那接觸中，一連串的圖像湧入她的腦海。她看到了世界又世界，她從未生活過的生活，以及千千萬萬個都有著她眼睛的臉。
如同來勢洶洶一般，畫面突然消失，留下珍獨自一人，輕輕滾動的霧氣逐漸退去。她站在那兒，如遺世獨立的哨兵，她的名字是她唯一能夠依附的真實。珍，夢想家，未見世界的流浪者，知道這不過是更大故事中的一章，一個尚未全然敘述完畢的故事。
霧氣後退，揭露了一條由她自己故事編織的小徑，珍踏上了第一步。隨著每一步的落下，清晰度回歸，模糊的邊緣變得銳利，她意識到這段旅程是她自己創造的。因為在鐘擺的每一次滴答之間，珍既是作者又是英雄，她敢於在未聚焦之地呼吸，用每一次呼吸書寫自己的命運。
In the blurred edges of reality, where dreams and waking moments intertwine, Jane found herself in a place both familiar and utterly alien. The air was thick with a mist that veiled the world around her, turning every shape into a ghostly suggestion of itself.
She stood still, her heart pounding a rhythm of trepidation and awe, as the mist began to swirl and coalesce into a figure before her. It was a face, but not quite human, its features blurred as if painted with water on an eager canvas. It was as if the being was trying to manifest into her world, its intent unreadable
Jane took a step forward, her name echoing in her mind like a mantra, grounding her in this liminal space. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice steady despite the trembling of her hands.
The figure did not speak; it merely hovered in silent judgment or perhaps curiosity. Jane reached out, her fingers brushing against the cold vapor, and in that touch, a torrent of images flooded her mind. She saw worlds upon worlds, lives she had never lived, and a thousand faces that all bore her eyes.
As quickly as it came, the vision dissipated, leaving Jane alone with the mist gently rolling away. She stood there, a sentinel in a forgotten place, her name the only truth she could cling to. Jane, the dreamer, the wanderer of worlds unseen, knew that this was but a chapter in a larger saga, a tale not yet fully told.
The mist retreated, revealing a path woven with the threads of her own story, and Jane took her first step. With each footfall, the clarity returned, the blurred edges sharpened, and she realized that this journey was her own making. For in this realm between the ticks of the clock, Jane was both the author and the hero, writing her destiny with each breath she dared to take in the land of the unfocused.
