Jane traced her fingers along the photograph, feeling the weight of the life hidden beneath the distortion.
2025.02.26
珍用一生拼湊破碎的過去，不是透過書寫的紀錄或口述的話語，而是透過那些被遺忘影像中殘存的痕跡。她是一名回聲的檔案管理者，能夠看穿表象，超越時間的模糊，直視一張照片中交織的記憶。
當一盒未標記的舊肖像被送到她手上時，她立刻察覺這些不只是臉孔，而是被時間困住的生命。其中一張照片特別吸引了她的目光——一位女人，五官錯置卻無比真實。捲曲的髮絲，幾乎無法掩蓋她眼中強烈情感的眼鏡，微張的雙唇，像是正要開口說話。這張照片閃爍著奇異的能量，彷彿它既不屬於過去，也未曾完全屬於現在。珍的手指沿著照片輕輕劃過，感受那些被扭曲隱藏的生命重量。這不是相機的失誤，而是一種時間的碰撞——同一個女人，在不同時刻的自己交錯融合，一個尋找母親的女孩、一名陷入沉思的學者、一位對抗遺忘的女人。
照片低語著，珍聆聽著。
她閉上眼睛，讓記憶浮現。一個名字——伊娃。一個地方——紐奧良。一個時間——介於昨日與百年前之間。這是伊娃的故事，失落，卻未曾消逝。珍明白自己該做什麼，她要解開這層層疊疊的記憶，訴說那些未曾言說的故事，確保沒有人——甚至時間本身——能夠抹去那些曾存在的回聲。
對珍來說，每一張肖像，都是一段奮力對抗遺忘的記憶。
Jane had spent her life piecing together the fractured past, not through written records or spoken words, but through the ghostly traces left behind in forgotten images. She was an Archivist of Echoes, someone who could see beyond the immediate, past the blur of time, and into the layered memories embedded in a single photograph.
When a box of old, unmarked portraits was brought to her, she recognized something immediately—these were not just faces, but lives caught in a state of flux. One image, in particular, held her gaze. A woman, her features distorted, yet unmistakably present. Curly hair, glasses that barely contained the intensity in her eyes, lips parted as if about to speak. The photo pulsed with a strange energy, as if it was not entirely of the past, nor fully of the present.
Jane traced her fingers along the photograph, feeling the weight of the life hidden beneath the distortion. It wasn’t an error of the camera but a collision—multiple versions of the same woman, caught in different moments of her life, bleeding into one another. A child searching for her mother, a scholar lost in thought, a woman resisting the forgetting.
The image whispered. Jane listened.
She closed her eyes and let the memories surface. A name—Eva. A place—New Orleans. A time—sometime between yesterday and a hundred years ago. This was Eva’s story, lost but not gone. Jane knew what she had to do. She would unravel the layers, speak the unspoken, and ensure that no one, not even time itself, could erase the echoes of those who came before.
For Jane, every portrait was a memory fighting to be remembered.
