She sees outlines of figures, shadows that once held form and meaning. Birds appear, soaring in slow arcs, wings stretched in graceful curves, their essence more suggestion than substance.
珍漫步在薄霧籠罩的田野上，一切都被柔和的光籠罩著。她看到一些人物的輪廓，那些曾經擁有形體和意義的影子。鳥兒出現了，緩緩地飛翔，展開優雅的弧形翅膀，它們的存在更像是暗示而非實體。這些鳥兒也是她的責任之一；它們承載著過往的記憶，是曾經跨越遺失風景的飛行旅程。珍知道，每隻鳥都攜帶著一段記憶，一份裹在羽毛與塵埃中的往事。
她周圍的空氣輕聲低語著片段的詞語，像是「Cecil」或「Brown」——那是這些遺留下來的痕跡與它們的主人之間唯一的實質聯繫。珍幾乎能夠感受到這些故事就在她的手中，如同一本被歲月磨得柔軟的書頁。但這些故事在她即將明白之時又逐漸消散，彷彿那些鳥兒從她的掌心飛離。她的角色並不是要完全理解或解開這些謎團，而是要敬重它們，讓它們在她所守護的記憶浩瀚中得到一個安息之地。
在珍的世界裡，沒有銳利的邊緣，沒有完整的結構；一切都是生活的模糊馬賽克。她充滿敬意地收集這些片段，靜靜地珍惜著，明白有時候，記憶之美正是在於它的不完整性。
In a world softened by time and memory, Jane’s presence is like the faint echoes of a story half-remembered. Her role in this tale is unique: she is The Keeper of Glimpses, tasked with capturing fragments of existence that hover on the edge of consciousness, like dreams fading with dawn. She gathers these moments—not whole, but broken and blurred, ephemeral details caught in the soft focus of recollection.
Jane walks through mist-laden fields where everything is bathed in a muted light. She sees outlines of figures, shadows that once held form and meaning. Birds appear, soaring in slow arcs, wings stretched in graceful curves, their essence more suggestion than substance. These birds, too, are part of her charge; they are memories of journeys once taken, of flights across landscapes long lost. Jane knows that each bird carries within it a memory, a small parcel of someone’s past, wrapped tightly in feathers and dust.
The air around her whispers with fragments of words, names like "Cecil" or “Brown”—the only tangible link to the beings who left these traces behind. Jane can almost feel the stories in her hand, like pages of a weathered book worn soft by the years. But they slip away, dissolving as soon as they begin to clarify, like the birds taking flight from her grasp. Her role is not to understand fully or to unravel these mysteries but to honor them, to give them a soft place to rest in the vast archive of memories she curates.
In Jane's world, nothing is sharp, nothing is complete; everything is part of a larger, blurred mosaic of life. She gathers these fragments lovingly, with a quiet reverence, understanding that sometimes, the beauty of a memory lies in its incompleteness.
