She reached out and traced the edges of her face, her fingertips brushing against the veil of memory that obscured her. It had started subtly - a slight haze around the edges, like an old photograph left too long in the sun.
2025.02.06
珍站在鏡子前，金色的午後陽光將她的倒影包裹在柔和的朦朧中。她是一位記憶編織者，一位回憶的藝術家，能夠將過去與現在的碎片縫合在一起，揭示隱藏在時間層疊之下的真相。然而今天，她自己的倒影卻顯得陌生——彷彿是她曾經存在過的模糊印象。
她伸出手，輕輕描繪著自己臉龐的輪廓，指尖觸碰著遮掩她的記憶薄紗。一開始只是微弱的模糊——如同一張被陽光曬得過久的舊照片。如今，她試圖回憶得越多，自己卻消失得越快，五官逐漸溶解為不明確的色彩，彷彿她的存在正悄然滑落在遺忘的縫隙中。她轉過身，走向她的畫室，四周的牆上掛滿了他人的肖像，他們的面孔層層交錯、變幻不定，被捕捉在存在與缺席的交會點上。每一幅畫布都承載著她所挽救的故事——一位老者對那位已遺忘姓名的女人的愛戀，一位母親失落的搖籃曲，一個被遺忘的孩子的笑聲。然而今天，當她拿起畫筆時，她猶豫了。她已為無數人的生命帶來清晰，卻始終無法勾勒自己的身影。
一陣敲門聲將她從思緒中拉回。一位年邁的婦人站在門前，眼中閃爍著認識之光。“珍，”她顫抖地低語，“我記得妳。”
那一刻，模糊的面紗稍微揭開了一些。並非完全清晰，至少還不行——但足以讓珍意識到，即使在最淡、最模糊的記憶中，仍然存在著某種真實，某種等待被看見的事物。她微笑著，拿起畫筆，開始將自己重新編織進存在之中。
Jane stood before the mirror, the golden afternoon light wrapping her reflection in a soft haze. She was a Memory Weaver, an artist of recollections who could stitch together fragments of the past and present, revealing truths hidden beneath the layers of time. But today, her own reflection felt unfamiliar—a blurred impression of who she used to be.
She reached out and traced the edges of her face, her fingertips brushing against the veil of memory that obscured her. It had started subtly—a slight haze around the edges, like an old photograph left too long in the sun. Now, the more she tried to recall, the more she faded, her features dissolving into indistinct colors, as if her very existence was slipping between the cracks of remembrance.
She turned away and walked to her studio, where portraits of others lined the walls, their faces layered and shifting, captured at the intersection of presence and absence. Each canvas held stories she had salvaged—an old man’s love for a woman whose name had escaped him, a mother’s lost lullaby, a forgotten child’s laughter. But when she picked up the brush today, she hesitated. She had painted so many lives into clarity, yet her own remained elusive.
A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. An elderly woman stood there, eyes filled with recognition. “Jane,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “I remember you.”
In that moment, the blur lifted slightly. Not entirely, not yet—but enough to remind Jane that even in the softest, most faded memories, there was still something real, something waiting to be seen. She smiled, reached for her brush, and began to weave herself back into existence.
