回音的編織者 The Weaver of Echoes
Jane reached out, fingertips brushing against the shifting image. As she touched it, laughter and sorrow intertwined in the air, voices overlapping — some pleading to be remembered, others desperate to fade.
2025.03.02
珍遊走於被遺忘的城市廢墟之間，記憶如塵埃般依附在牆上，等待著被適當的雙手輕輕撥動，喚回生命。她既非幽魂，也非凡人——她存在於時間的縫隙之中，將破碎的回音編織成幾乎完整的故事。
今夜，在一條荒廢的小巷深處，她面對著最新的幻影。一張扭曲的臉浮現在她眼前——嘴角拉得太寬，雙眼彼此交疊，時而清晰，時而模糊，在過去與現在之間不停變換。這不是一個人，而是一個集合體，是無數靈魂交錯疊合而成的殘影，他們的故事早已彼此滲透，難以分離。
珍伸出手，指尖輕觸那扭曲的影像。剎那間，笑聲與悲歎交織於空氣中，重疊的聲音此起彼落——有些渴望被記住，有些則迫切想要消散。影像的臉龐泛起漣漪，五官在時間的洪流中變幻：一名年輕女子在市場的攤位後低聲細語，一名男子透過戰爭摧毀的窗戶凝視破碎的倒影，一名孩童的笑容被無法言說的陰影吞噬。
「你是誰？」珍輕聲問道，儘管她已知答案。
他們是時光殘存的碎片，被歲月殘忍地拼湊在一起。
她閉上雙眼，開始拆解這些糾纏的線索，釋放那些被束縛的靈魂。影像中的身影逐一走出，重新完整，記憶終於獲得自由。當最後一個人消失在夜色中，珍轉身望向牆壁，自己的倒影微微顫動，彷彿也在時間的流轉中閃爍不定。
她也是一塊回音的拼圖。
而她將一直承載這些故事，直至時間的盡頭。
Jane moved through the abandoned corridors of forgotten cities, where memories clung to walls like dust, waiting for the right hands to stir them back to life. She was neither ghost nor mortal—she existed in the spaces between, weaving fractured echoes into something almost whole.
Tonight, in the heart of a ruinous alley, she faced her latest apparition. A veil of time distorted the face before her—a mouth stretching too wide, eyes folding into themselves, flickering between past and present. It was not a person but a composite, a layering of souls whose stories had bled into one another.
Jane reached out, fingertips brushing against the shifting image. As she touched it, laughter and sorrow intertwined in the air, voices overlapping—some pleading to be remembered, others desperate to fade. The figure’s face rippled, its features dissolving into overlapping lives: a young woman whispering secrets behind a marketplace stall, a man staring through the shattered reflection of a war-torn window, a child whose joy had been eclipsed by something unnamed.
"Who are you?" Jane asked, though she already knew.
They were remnants, stitched together by time’s cruel hand.
She closed her eyes and pulled the strands apart, untangling the faces, unraveling the grief. One by one, the figures stepped forward, whole again, their memories set free. As the last one faded into the hush of the night, Jane turned to the wall, her own reflection shimmering in its surface.
She, too, was a weave of echoes.
And she would carry their stories until the end of time.
