Her walls were covered in photographs, each image shifting subtly when the light changed. A single portrait could hold multiple lives at once, their gazes overlapping, their stories entwined.
2025.03.20
珍並不像其他人那樣活在時間裡。對於大多數人而言，現在是清晰而具體的，而對珍來說，過去卻像一層薄紗，時時滲透進來，低聲耳語著。她的世界是一幅重疊的畫卷，臉孔交織在一起——微笑、皺眉，在喜悅與悲傷之間變換著。
她獨自住在城市邊緣的一間小屋裡，那裡的記憶像午後陽光中的塵埃般縈繞不散。她的牆上掛滿了照片，每當光線變化時，影像便微妙地改變。一張肖像裡可能藏著多重生命的痕跡，目光交錯，故事交織。有一天，一名男子來到她的門前，手裡握著一張褪色的照片。
「我不記得她的名字了，」他的聲音猶豫而低沉，「但她曾是我生命中的一切。」
珍接過照片，指尖輕撫過泛黃的紙面。隨著她的觸摸，視線逐漸模糊，照片下的記憶層層浮現——不只是一張面孔，而是許多張。孩童的笑聲、少女的堅毅、老人的靜謐智慧，交錯閃爍。
「她還在這裡，」珍輕聲說，將男子引向一旁的鏡子。鏡中的倒影微微顫動，短暫的瞬間裡，他看見了她——依舊存在於記憶的摺痕中，面容變換卻又清晰無誤。
男子的眼眶泛紅。「我看見她了，」他低聲呢喃。
珍微微點頭。她不只是記憶的守護者，更是編織者，將時間的碎片細細串聯。
而在那靜謐的剎那，過去再次呼吸。
Jane did not live in time the way others did. Where most people saw the present, crisp and defined, she saw the past pressing through like a whisper beneath a veil. Her world was a palimpsest of faces layered over one another—smiling, frowning, flickering between joy and sorrow.
She lived alone in a small house on the outskirts of the city, a place where memories clung to the air like dust in the afternoon sun. Her walls were covered in photographs, each image shifting subtly when the light changed. A single portrait could hold multiple lives at once, their gazes overlapping, their stories entwined.
One day, a man arrived at her door, holding a faded photograph. "I don’t remember her name," he admitted, his voice hesitant. "But she meant everything to me."
Jane took the photo, running her fingers over its surface. As she did, her vision blurred, and the layers beneath the image began to surface—an echo of the past, hidden beneath the grain of time. The woman’s face shifted, revealing not one, but many. A child’s laughter, a young woman’s determination, an elder’s quiet wisdom.
"She is still here," Jane murmured, guiding the man to the mirror beside her. The reflection shimmered, and for a brief moment, he saw her—alive in the folds of memory, her features shifting but unmistakable.
Tears welled in his eyes. "I see her," he whispered.
Jane nodded. She was not just a keeper of memories; she was a weaver, threading together the fragments of time. Where others saw loss, she saw continuity.
And in that quiet moment, the past breathed once more.
