Jane traced her fingers over the fragile surface. It wasn't the usual kind of degradation; it was as if the image had been disturbed, distorted by something beyond time.
2025.01.29
珍一直被遺忘的、錯置的、幾乎消失的事物所吸引。她不僅僅是一名檔案管理員——她是個試圖找回時間想要抹去事物的探尋者。在一家古董店昏暗的後房裡，她找到了它：一張照片，模糊得彷彿困在維度之間。照片中的女人的臉勉強能辨識，她的目光不確定，彷彿意識到歲月正在逐漸抹去她的存在。
珍的手指輕輕劃過脆弱的照片表面。這不是一般的老化現象；這張影像似乎被打亂了，被某種超越時間的力量扭曲。她屏住呼吸。這種感覺她並不陌生——她曾在夢中見過這樣的情景，夢境更像是一種記憶，那些她試圖抓住卻漸漸消散的臉孔。這張照片拒絕呈現清晰，就像耳語從記憶的裂縫中滑落。珍把它帶回家，將它釘在牆上，在桌燈微弱的光線下凝視著。她感到一種牽引，一種邀請。夜復一夜，照片中的肖像似乎在變化——眼睛轉向她，嘴唇微微張開，無聲的懇求，她尚未理解。
直到某個晚上，當雨點輕敲窗戶時，珍終於聽見了它：一個名字。她自己的名字。
她倒吸一口氣，向後退了一步。照片中的女人不只是個被遺忘的陌生人——她認識珍，與她有聯繫。但這聯繫來自何處？是前世？是被撕裂的時間線？還是這證明了記憶就像影像一樣，可以模糊、扭曲，最終重新形成某種遙不可及的事物？
珍不再只是個檔案管理員。她成了遺失身份的編織者，傾聽被遺忘靈魂的低語。而現在，她有了一個需要揭開的名字——她自己的名字。
Jane had always been drawn to the forgotten, the misplaced, and the almost-lost. She wasn’t just an archivist—she was a seeker of what time tried to erase. In the dimly lit back room of an antique shop, she found it: a photograph, blurred as though caught between dimensions. The woman’s face was almost discernible, her gaze uncertain, as if aware of the passing years dissolving her existence.
Jane traced her fingers over the fragile surface. It wasn’t the usual kind of degradation; it was as if the image had been disturbed, distorted by something beyond time. Her breath hitched. She had seen this before—in dreams that felt more like memories, of faces that faded even as she tried to hold onto them.
The photograph resisted clarity, like a whisper slipping through the cracks of memory. Jane took it home, pinned it to her wall, and stared at it beneath the dim glow of her desk lamp. She felt a pull, an invitation. Night after night, the portrait seemed to shift—eyes turning toward her, lips parting slightly, a silent plea she couldn’t yet understand.
Then, one evening, as rain tapped against her window, Jane finally heard it: a name. Her own.
She gasped, stepping back. The woman in the portrait wasn’t just a forgotten stranger—she was someone who knew her, someone connected to her. But from where? A past life? A fractured timeline? Or was this proof that memory, like an image, could blur, twist, and reform into something just out of reach?
Jane was no longer just an archivist. She was a weaver of lost identities, a listener to the echoes of forgotten souls. And now, she had a name to uncover—her own.
