Each canvas she touched seemed to hum with echoes of lives once vivid, now blurred by time.
2025.02.25
珍不是一位普通的檔案管理員。在城市最古老圖書館的一個被遺忘的角落裡，她整理的不是書籍，而是記憶——那些層層交疊的肖像，帶著沉重的故事氣息在畫布上微微顫動。
一天傍晚，暮色滲透進高高的窗戶時，珍發現了一幅被埋在積滿灰塵畫框下的奇特肖像。這幅影像像一個錯綜複雜的迷宮，重疊著無數張面孔——一位年長者的皺紋與智慧與一位年輕學者的嚴肅凝視交織在一起，邊緣上還有一個帶著薰衣草色髮絲的模糊身影，似乎隨時會消失。珍無法移開目光。
隨著時間流逝，這些人影漸漸清晰，他們的身份像古老織布機上的線一樣一層層地剝開。學者眼鏡中的倒影不僅僅是聰慧，還有一種從未被訴說的悲傷。老人的手上刻著一生溫柔的工藝痕跡，也許他是個被遺忘的小提琴家或木匠。而那個在邊緣的幽靈身影？那份熟悉感令人不寒而慄。
當她的指尖輕觸玻璃，耳邊盤旋起低語聲：「記住我們。」
突然，珍在影像交錯的縫隙中看見了自己——她曾經接觸過的每一個靈魂的碎片化倒影。那個帶著薰衣草色髮絲的幽靈並不是他人，而是她自己，那個在保存他人故事的過程中，幾乎遺失了自我故事的珍。
淚水湧上眼眶，她明白了，這幅肖像不僅僅是遺忘面孔的集合——它是一面交織著生命的鏡子，提醒她，在守護他人記憶的同時，她也不該迷失自己。
那天晚上，珍開始了新的畫作——這次不是陌生人的故事，而是她自己的生命，與她曾發誓不讓消逝的靈魂交織在一起。
Jane was no ordinary archivist. In a forgotten wing of the city's oldest library, she curated not books, but memories—layered portraits that shimmered with the weight of countless stories. Each canvas she touched seemed to hum with echoes of lives once vivid, now blurred by time.
One evening, as twilight seeped through the tall windows, Jane discovered a peculiar portrait buried beneath dusty frames. The image was a labyrinth of overlapping faces—an elderly man’s lined wisdom melted into the stern gaze of a young scholar, while a shadowy figure with lavender-streaked hair lingered at the edge, as if ready to vanish.
Jane couldn’t look away.
With each passing hour, the figures seemed to sharpen, their identities peeling apart like threads in an ancient tapestry. The scholar’s glasses reflected not only intelligence but a sorrow never voiced. The elder’s weathered hands hinted at a lifetime of gentle craftsmanship, perhaps a forgotten violinist or carpenter. The spectral figure on the edge? That one felt hauntingly familiar.
As her fingers grazed the glass, whispers curled around her thoughts: "Remember us."
Suddenly, Jane saw herself within the folds of the image—fragmented reflections of every soul she had ever touched through her art. The lavender-haired specter wasn’t someone else. It was her, the version of Jane who had buried her own story beneath the weight of others’ lives.
Tears welled as she realized the portrait wasn’t just a collection of forgotten faces—it was a mirror of interconnected lives, a reminder that in preserving others’ memories, she had nearly lost her own.
That night, Jane began a new canvas—not of strangers’ stories, but her own woven through the lives she had vowed never to let fade.
