The portrait arrived wrapped in thick brown paper, its edges softened by time. Jane placed it on her desk, peeling away the layers carefully.
2025.02.18
珍是未見之物的檔案管理員，一位守護在過去與現在之間失落記憶的人。她的世界充滿了模糊的面孔和低語的名字，它們的形態像晨霧般消散。有人來找她，被她能挖掘被抹去之物的承諾所吸引；也有人害怕她能凝視遺忘的深淵，並從中拉回某些——某人。
這幅肖像畫包裹在厚厚的牛皮紙中，邊緣因時間而變得柔軟。珍將它放在桌上，小心翼翼地剝開層層包裝。下面呈現出一張面孔，扭曲卻熟悉，彷彿時間曾用指尖撫過影像，使其輪廓變得模糊。兩條黃色的線條斜穿其中，像金脈穿透石頭一樣。它們劃過這張臉，既遮掩又強調了那被歲月隱藏的表情。珍用指尖描摹著那些線條，感受圖像的紋理。這不僅僅是一張照片——它是一幅重疊的遺物，一個人生命的層疊記錄。她閉上眼睛，讓影像滲透進她的思緒。一個名字浮現，輕柔而堅定：安德烈。這些音節在她的腦海中顫動，如靜水中泛起的漣漪。
她開始工作，運用光與影、墨跡與低語，來重建那些被掩蓋的事物。每一筆都讓安德烈變得更加清晰，他的存在在寂靜的房間中逐漸具象化。他曾是個沉靜而堅韌的男人，一位將過去隨身攜帶在口袋裡，如零散硬幣般的說書人。那些黃色的線條——是繩索？是鎖鏈？還是通往其他地方的路徑？答案潛伏在照片脆弱的邊緣之外，等待被發現。
珍的角色不是修復，而是記憶。而當安德烈的形象在她腦海中逐漸清晰時，她知道：他不會再被遺忘。
Jane was an archivist of the unseen, a keeper of fractured memories lost between the past and present. Her world was filled with blurred faces and whispered names, their forms dissolving into abstraction like mist unraveling at dawn. Some sought her out, drawn by the promise that she could unearth what had been erased, others feared her ability to gaze into the void of forgetting and pull something—someone—back.
The portrait arrived wrapped in thick brown paper, its edges softened by time. Jane placed it on her desk, peeling away the layers carefully. Beneath it lay a face, distorted yet familiar, as if time had run its fingers through the image, blurring its contours. Two streaks of yellow ran diagonally across it, like veins of gold running through stone. They bisected the face, hiding yet highlighting the remnants of an expression lost to the years.
Jane traced the lines with her fingertips, feeling the texture of the image. It wasn’t just a photograph—it was a palimpsest, a layered relic of someone’s life. She closed her eyes, letting the image seep into her thoughts. A name surfaced, soft but insistent: Andrei. The syllables trembled in her mind like ripples in still water.
She began her work, using light and shadow, ink and whispers, to reconstruct what had been obscured. Each stroke brought Andrei closer, his presence growing more tangible in the quiet room. He had been a man of quiet resilience, a storyteller who carried his past in his pockets like loose change. The yellow lines—were they ropes? Chains? Or paths leading elsewhere? The answers lurked beyond the photograph’s fragile frame, waiting to be found.
Jane’s role was not to restore, but to remember. And as Andrei’s image sharpened in her mind, she knew: he would never be forgotten again.
