Jane was no ordinary artist. She was a Memory Stitcher, tasked with piecing together the forgotten, sewing them back into the fabric of existence.
2025.02.16
在一座被遺忘的小鎮裡，霧氣盤旋在屋頂上空，時間像一支緩慢的華爾滋流動著。珍靜靜地坐在閣樓的工作室裡，戴著露指手套的雙手輕盈地舞動著，她正縫補著記憶——用過去的低語紡成的線，一針一線地將它們縫回存在的軌跡中。
閣樓裡擺滿了肖像，但這些並非尋常畫廊裡能見到的作品。這些肖像柔和、模糊，由布料拼接而成，色彩淡雅，透著粉紫的溫暖光暈，雙眼蘊藏著無法言說的秘密。珍不是普通的藝術家，她是一位記憶縫補師，專門拼湊那些被遺忘的碎片，將它們重新縫入世界的肌理中。今晚，她的指尖輕顫，拂過一張特別的臉——圓潤的雙眼閃爍著玻璃般的光澤，面頰染上一抹不褪的紅暈，被一圈柔軟的兜帽包裹著。這個表情徘徊在喜悅與憂傷之間，彷彿被時間鎖住，無法前進。
「這個人啊……」珍低聲呢喃，「曾經被深愛過。」
她輕輕牽動針線，細細勾勒出邊緣。隨著針腳的緊密，空氣中微微顫動，彷彿有什麼東西甦醒過來。熟悉的花香瀰漫四周，還夾雜著淡淡的糖香，隱約間，一陣輕快的笑聲在牆壁間回響。隨後，一道微弱卻明亮的聲音低語道：「我記得了……」
珍長長地吐出一口氣，撥開額前的一縷銀髮。又一段記憶回到了它該去的地方，不再迷失於模糊之中。
她微笑著，伸手取出下一根線。
In the heart of a forgotten town, where fog curled around the rooftops and time moved like a slow waltz, Jane sat in her attic studio. Her hands, wrapped in fingerless gloves, moved with delicate precision as she stitched together memories—threads spun from the whispers of the past.
The attic was filled with portraits, but not the kind one could find in a gallery. These were soft, blurred faces, stitched from fabric, painted in muted hues of pink and violet, with eyes that held secrets too heavy for words. Jane was no ordinary artist. She was a Memory Stitcher, tasked with piecing together the forgotten, sewing them back into the fabric of existence.
Tonight, her fingers trembled over a peculiar face—a childlike figure with round, glassy eyes and a perpetual blush, framed by the gentle curve of a hooded cloak. The expression teetered between joy and sorrow, frozen somewhere in between.
“This one,” Jane whispered, “was loved once.”
She traced her needle along the edges, pulling the thread tight. As she did, the room shivered. The air thickened with the scent of old flowers and warm sugar, and a distant giggle echoed from the walls. A voice, faint yet bright, murmured, “I remember now.”
Jane exhaled, brushing a lock of silver hair from her face. Another memory returned home, no longer lost in the blur.
She smiled and reached for the next thread.
