Jane's talent was unique; she could sense stories from colors alone, each shade humming a different note of human warmth.
2025.04.10
珍成為了被遺忘花園的守護者，溫柔地向那些被時光淡化的色彩輕聲傾訴。每天早晨，當薄霧悄悄地覆蓋大地，她便走進這座荒蕪的花園。在這裡，色彩經過歲月的洗禮，彼此柔和地交融，編織出曾經鮮活的生命故事的抽象輕語。
今日，珍用手指輕輕描摹著被青苔覆蓋的字母，那模糊的碑文由褪去的綠色與灰色交錯而成，零碎地訴說著被大自然逐漸奪回的故事。她感覺到了隱藏在柔和色調中的回憶脈動——曾經迴響的笑聲、藤蔓覆蓋拱門下低語的秘密，以及早已消逝無聲的腳步聲。珍有一項獨特的天賦，她能從色彩之中感知故事，每個色調都輕輕哼唱著不同的人情溫度。她凝視著那些柔和的綠與朦朧的灰，彷彿看見一名與自己極為相似的女子，數十年前曾經漫步於此花園之中。那些模糊的字跡隱約透露著那女子的姓名，卻已逐漸消散於背景中，難以完整辨識。
珍跪了下來，輕柔地將掌心貼向冰涼而濕潤的泥土。花園似乎有所回應，周圍的顏色瞬間深了一些，輕柔地撫觸著她的皮膚。她低聲呢喃：「我在這裡，我記得。」
圍繞著珍的空氣微微地閃動起來，原本模糊的輪廓與柔和的色彩暫時清晰了一瞬，又輕盈地消散了。珍明白，這座花園如同記憶本身，拒絕尖銳的線條與明確的邊界，更喜歡柔軟、模糊與靜謐的衰敗。在這個褪色之地，珍既是守護者也是創造者，她的存在讓被遺忘的故事再度悄然盛放，即使僅僅綻放於溫柔而朦朧的綠意之中。
Jane became a guardian of forgotten gardens, a tender whisperer to the hues that memories left behind. Each morning, as mist blanketed the world, she ventured into the overgrown garden where colors, softened by time, mingled gently into each other, creating abstract whispers of lives once vividly lived.
Today, Jane traced her fingers along moss-covered letters, a blurred epitaph of faded greens and subtle greys, fragments of a story nature was quietly reclaiming. She felt the pulse of memories hidden in the softened tones—the laughter once echoing here, secrets whispered beneath vine-draped arches, and footsteps that had long faded into silence.
Jane's talent was unique; she could sense stories from colors alone, each shade humming a different note of human warmth. As she gazed at the muted greens and smoky greys, she envisioned a woman—much like herself—wandering through the gardens decades prior. The blurred letters carried fragments of this woman's name, a half-remembered signature dissolving into the background.
Jane knelt, gently pressing her palm against the cool, damp earth. The garden seemed to respond, colors deepening momentarily, brushing her skin with subtle acknowledgment. She whispered softly, "I'm here. I remember."
The air around Jane shimmered delicately, the blurred lines and soft colors coalescing momentarily into clarity before gently dispersing again. Jane understood—this garden, like memory itself, refused sharp lines and distinct borders. It preferred softness, ambiguity, and gentle decay. In this faded place, Jane was both curator and creator, a caretaker whose presence made forgotten stories bloom again, even if only in tender shades of green.
