The words weren’t addressed to her — but they haunted her. She began to collect these half-finished messages, compiling them into a journal that seemed to write itself
2025.05.10
珍從不大聲說話，但世界總在她沉默的縫隙中聽見最響亮的聲音。在這座迷戀符號與訊號的小鎮上，她總是悄然無聲地行走——除了紙張能察覺她的存在。不是報紙或信件，而是對話框：漫畫書中的碎語、被偷聽的爭執、教科書邊角遺留的塗鴉。這些文字泡泡跟著她，有時像氦氣鬼魂般飄在後頭，有時如塗鴉般黏在她的眼鏡上，只有她能看見。
某天下午，她盯著一個模糊的對話框看得太久：*「不是你…小夥伴—」*它懸在一張看來異常熟悉的臉上，扭曲在懷舊的塑膠光澤中。那不是她的臉，卻熟悉得令人不安。那影像似乎在脈動，像是在回憶她已忘卻的事。那句話不是對她說的——但它糾纏著她。她開始蒐集這些未完成的訊息，把它們寫進一本似乎會自我書寫的日記中。每個片段都暗示某種被抹去的東西：一個被遺忘的手足、一個太早丟棄的想像朋友、一道被悲傷投下的影子。
然後，訊息開始回應了。
「珍，是我。」
「我從來不小。」
「你忘了那個約定。」
珍這才意識到，她不只是旁觀者，而是通往失語世界的鑰匙孔。小鎮、書本，甚至她自己的記憶，都曾將某些東西從故事裡剪去，而那些東西，曾經一直站在她身旁。
她成為了誤讀之靈媒——不只聆聽被丟棄的聲音，而是與它們對話。她一個對話框一個對話框地縫補那些被遺忘的存在，直到最後那一格不再說：「不是你…」，而是：「我們記得。」
Jane had never spoken above a whisper, but the world heard her loudest in the silences between words. In a town obsessed with signs and signals, she walked unnoticed—except by paper. Not newspapers or letters, but speech bubbles, fragmented thoughts trapped in comic books, overheard arguments, forgotten margins of textbooks. These bubbles followed her, sometimes trailing behind her like helium ghosts, sometimes plastered across her glasses like graffiti no one else could see.
One afternoon, she stared too long at a blurred bubble: “Not you... little fri–” It hovered over a face that looked eerily like her own, warped in the plastic sheen of nostalgia. It wasn't hers, but the familiarity was unsettling. The image pulsed faintly as if remembering something she couldn’t.
The words weren’t addressed to her—but they haunted her. She began to collect these half-finished messages, compiling them into a journal that seemed to write itself. Every fragment hinted at something once erased: a forgotten sibling, an imaginary friend left behind too soon, a shadow cast by grief.
And then, the messages started to respond.
“Jane, it’s me.”
“I was never little.”
“You forgot the pact.”
Jane realized she wasn’t a passive observer. She was the keyhole through which displaced voices whispered home. The town, the books, even her own memories had edited something out, something that once stood just beside her in every frame.
So she became the Misread Medium—not just hearing the ghosts of discarded dialogue but answering them. One speech bubble at a time, Jane stitched forgotten presences back into the page, until the final panel no longer said Not you..., but instead, We remember.
