This was no ordinary artwork; the colors bled into one another like an eternal, unresolved story. Jane leaned closer, her fingertips tingling as though the portrait called to her.
2024.12.17
珍的名字像是隱約地刻在被遺忘的畫帆上的一個低語，她總是對那些時間變得淡曠的空間深感吸引。她不再只是一名歷史家或藝術家，她是更多的什麼，一種無法言語形容的存在。在鎮上邊緣的閣構裏，珍發現了它，一幅被年代和陰影封詰的畫像。它的表面似乎在息吸，任紙質般的皮質躲在基地，雖然臉形雲霧般不清，但當她出神地出讀時，一流深遠的記憶濛濛而下，驚滅她的血脈。它像是有生命的，在她的目光下漸漸變動。
傳說久久以來都說有一位神祕的畫家，他畫的不是臉形，而是她們所守護的靈魂—封裝的過去和現在，在靈異的色彩中交錯。這幅畫不是普通的藝術作品，其中的色彩很像是一個永恆但未決的故事。珍侵近，她的手指底部感到一陣麻痺，像是畫像在召喚她。「你是誰？」她說。但問題反往反覆地響回她耳邊。
珍深深地陷入了這作品裏。她自動地開始繪畫它的條紋，將它的深層意義幫它一層層地揭開，就像她能夠還原其所封存的靈魂。那淡淡的凝視似乎認得她的名字，讓她想起了被埋葬的一切：那些被忘記的雕畫手和歌唱的聲音。在她的夢境中，這幅畫像似乎有息地喘息，常常似有無聲的語言問話這些還未被添上的生命故事，和只能存在於記憶與忘記水線之間的人們。
最後一晚，珍累累地只能再次觸摸畫帆，然後遺失了。她的死亡沒有留下任何痕跡，只有底部陰影的角落上那個淡淡的簽名。
如今，當別人發現這幅畫像時，她們總是覺得能看到珍的倒影—在被遺忘的層次中，那深遺的臉形像在說，對那些敢於近看的人一直問：找到我。
Jane, whose name appeared like a whisper etched on a forgotten canvas, had always felt drawn to spaces where time blurred. She wasn’t just a historian or an artist anymore; she was something more, something unspoken. In an attic at the edge of town, Jane found it—a portrait wrapped in layers of age and shadow. Its surface pulsed like breathing fabric, and though the face was barely there, a deep current of memory swept through her veins as she studied it. It felt alive, shifting under her gaze.
Legends had long spoken of a mysterious artist who painted not faces, but the souls they guarded—fragments of past and present intertwining in spectral hues. This was no ordinary artwork; the colors bled into one another like an eternal, unresolved story. Jane leaned closer, her fingertips tingling as though the portrait called to her.
“Who are you?” she murmured, but the question echoed back at her.
Jane became consumed by the piece. She worked tirelessly, sketching its contours and peeling back the layers of its meaning, as though she could restore the soul it captured. The faded gaze seemed to know her name. It reminded her of something buried: forgotten hands that painted, forgotten voices that sang. In her dreams, the portrait breathed and whispered tales of lives unlived, of people who existed only in liminal spaces between memory and oblivion.
On the final night, exhausted, Jane touched the canvas one last time—and disappeared. Her absence left no trace but a smudged signature hidden in the shadows of the portrait’s corner.
Now, when others find the image, they think they see Jane’s reflection—a blurred face among forgotten layers, whispering to those who dare to look closely: Find me.
