記憶的製圖師 A Cartographer of Memory
But as Jane leaned closer, she saw that the image was not her own. Another face, almost merging with hers, lips slightly parted, eyes shadowed with something between recognition and longing.
2025.02.02
珍用一生來追尋遺失的聲音，繪製那些介於存在與遺忘之間的未言歷史。她是一位記憶的製圖師，一個用零碎的過去編織現今的女人。但今夜，過去回頭凝視著她。
火車窗上的倒影變化著。起初，它只是城市燈光的折射，使她的臉扭曲得難以辨識。但當珍湊近時，她發現那影像並非自己的。另一張臉，幾乎與她的重疊，微啟的雙唇，眼神裡夾雜著介於認出與渴望之間的神色。一個陌生人？一段記憶？還是過去正執意要被看見？
她的呼吸霧化在玻璃上，柔化了交疊影像的輪廓。這種感覺熟悉——身份的模糊，時間的折疊。她多年來解開那些名字早已簡化為廢棄文件上的縮寫的人的歷史，但這次不同。這次，這一切變得無比親密。
她伸出手指，懸浮在倒影之上，描摹著自身影像消失於另一張臉的地方。然後，一道低語響起——不是來自火車，不是來自外界，而是來自倒影本身。
「珍。」
一個隨時間飄盪的名字，但它是在呼喚她，還是提醒她？火車顫動，玻璃上的影像變形，使那張臉更進一步模糊，直到它不再只是倒影，而是一種存在——與她交織在一起。
珍沒有退縮。相反地，她傾聽著。對一位記憶的製圖師來說，有些地圖只能在自我與陰影交織的地方描繪而成。
Jane had spent her life tracing the echoes of lost voices, mapping the unspoken histories that hovered between existence and oblivion. She was a Cartographer of Memory, a woman who wove the fabric of forgotten lives into the present, using nothing but the fragmented whispers of the past. But tonight, the past had turned its gaze upon her.
The reflection in the train window shifted. At first, it was merely the overlay of the city lights, warping her own face into something unrecognizable. But as Jane leaned closer, she saw that the image was not her own. Another face, almost merging with hers, lips slightly parted, eyes shadowed with something between recognition and longing. A stranger? A memory? Or was it the past insisting on being seen?
Her breath fogged against the glass, softening the contours of the overlapping faces. The sensation was familiar—the way identities blurred, how time folded in on itself. She had spent years untangling the histories of those whose names had been reduced to initials on abandoned documents, but this was different. This was intimate.
She reached up, fingers hovering just above the reflection, tracing the space where her own image dissolved into the other. And then, a whisper—not from the train, not from the world outside, but from within the reflection itself.
"Jane."
A name carried through time, but was it calling her or reminding her? The train rattled, its motion warping the glass, distorting the figure further until it was no longer just a reflection but a presence—woven into her.
Jane did not recoil. Instead, she listened. For a Cartographer of Memory, some maps could only be drawn from the places where self and shadow intertwined
