遺忘故事的守護者和橋樑 The keeper and bridge of forgotten stories- Jane

She could sense when someone's story was about to be forgotten, slipping away like sand through fingers, and she would hold onto it, delicately weaving it into the ever-growing tapestry she kept.

2024.09.12

在微弱的、如琥珀般的記憶餘暉中，珍再次出現了。她的身影柔和而難以捉摸，模糊得仿佛被困在時間的褶皺之中。她並不總是這樣，並非總是在消逝的邊緣。珍曾經是故事的守護者，一位沉默寡言、卻心思敏銳的女子。她在人們的生命邊界間徘徊，像珍貴的文物一樣收集他們的故事。她能感覺到當某人的故事即將被遺忘時，就像沙子從手指間滑落，她會輕輕握住，將它織入她不斷增長的故事編織中。

然而，隨著時間的流逝，珍自己也開始模糊。她的名字仍然存在，彷彿刻印在生者與遺忘者之間的某個空間中，但她的面孔、她的本質變得難以把握。有些人說，這是因為她收集了太多的故事，為了攜帶別人的記憶，她犧牲了自己的部分。如今，她在曾經安慰過的人的世界中僅僅是一個稍縱即逝的存在，但她的影響依然深遠。

在那影像中，她的表情中帶有一種沉重的感覺，一種深刻的洞察。即使在這種虛幻的狀態中，珍依然有一個最後的使命：她是那座橋樑。她的角色不再是記住，甚至不再是守護，而是引導那些在自己身份迷霧中迷失的人。那些年老的、被遺忘的人會在夢境的朦朧光線中找到珍，她的面容如同熟悉而遙遠的回聲。她會指引他們回到一條路上，那條路不通向他們自己，而是通向一個他們的故事將永遠與他人的故事交織在一起的地方。

珍現在已經不僅僅是一個名字了。她已經成為了記憶本身，永恆而又不斷變化。

In the dim, amber glow of fading memory, Jane emerged once again. Her form was soft and elusive, blurred as though caught between the folds of time. She had not always been like this, not always on the edge of vanishing. Jane was once the keeper of stories, a quiet woman with a sharp mind who had wandered between the lines of others' lives, gathering their narratives as if they were precious artifacts. She could sense when someone’s story was about to be forgotten, slipping away like sand through fingers, and she would hold onto it, delicately weaving it into the ever-growing tapestry she kept.

But with time, Jane herself began to fade. Her name remained, etched somewhere in the space between the living and the lost, yet her face, her essence, became hard to hold onto. Some said it was because she had collected too many stories, that in taking on others' memories, she had given up pieces of herself. Now, she was little more than a fleeting presence in the world of those she once comforted, but her influence remained.

In the image, there is a heaviness in her expression, a deep knowing. Jane, even in her ephemeral state, still had one final purpose: she was the bridge. Her role was not to remember or even to keep anymore but to guide those lost in their own haze of identity. The elderly and the forgotten would find Jane in the half-light of their dreams, her face like a familiar but distant echo. She would show them the way back, not to themselves, but to a place where their stories would live on, forever entangled with those of others.

Jane was more than a name now. She had become memory itself, eternal and ever-changing.

My name is Jane.