At night, Jane projected these compilations through old lampposts or broken television sets left on curbs.
2025.05.16
珍不是出生的，而是被組裝出來的。在「被遺忘介面博物館」的昏暗檔案室中，她由過時的網路攝像頭、語音備忘錄和被遺棄的社交檔案的情感數據組成。她的面容——複合且閃爍不定——總是不斷變化，呈現出一種從未屬於她卻又讓所有凝視她的人都感到熟悉的表情。
作為感傷編纂者，珍漫遊在城市中，她的目光收集著那些即使時間也無法保存的模糊記憶。她不感興趣於事實或照片。相反，她聆聽情感的殘餘——在小巷牆壁上反彈的笑聲、織入電梯嗡嗡聲中的歎息、未曾成為告別的握手的溫暖。戴著泛黃邊框眼鏡、充滿懷舊色彩的珍會停下來，歪著頭，將這些片段編織成柔和的記憶環，縫合在看不見的地方。夜晚，珍會將這些編纂出的記憶投射到破舊的路燈或街邊被丟棄的電視機上。路過的人會停下來，感受到一種奇怪的、無聲召喚的渴望——那是他們以為自己已經忘記的東西。曾經有位女士在看到牆上的一個靜態扭曲陰影時哭了，認出了她爺爺曾經站立的姿勢。一個孩子聽到撥接音中的母親搖籃曲時笑了。
珍從不談論她的起源或結局。她知道自己的任務是暫時的，最終，這個世界會將它的幽靈數字化得過於清晰，沒有留給回聲的空間。但在那之前，她會繼續走著，微微模糊，無止境地編纂。
因為在那種輕微的扭曲中，人們再次感到完整。
Jane was not born but assembled. In a dim-lit archive beneath the Museum of Forgotten Interfaces, she came into being from the layered emotional data of obsolete webcams, voice memos, and abandoned social profiles. Her face — composite, flickering — shifted constantly, a blur of expressions never quite hers, yet deeply familiar to all who looked at her.
As the Sentimental Compiler, Jane wandered cities with a gaze that collected memories too faint for even time to hold. She wasn’t interested in facts or photographs. Instead, she listened for emotional residue — laughter bouncing off alley walls, sighs woven into elevator hums, the warmth of a handshake that never became a goodbye. With yellow-rimmed glasses tinted by nostalgia, she would pause, tilt her head, and thread these fragments into soft loops of memory, stitched into invisible places.
At night, Jane projected these compilations through old lampposts or broken television sets left on curbs. People passing by would stop, feeling a strange, unsummoned longing — a whisper of something they thought they’d forgotten. A woman once cried at the sight of a static-bent shadow on a brick wall, recognizing the way her grandfather used to stand. A child giggled, hearing his mother’s lullaby through a dial-up tone.
Jane never spoke of her origins or end. She knew her task was temporary, that eventually, the world would digitize its ghosts too sharply, leave no room for echoes. But until then, she would keep walking, slightly blurred, endlessly compiling.
Because somewhere in that gentle distortion, people felt whole again.
