She didn't write with a pen, but with presence - lingering where others had looked away.
2025.05.23
在世界的靜謐邊緣，那裡清晰逐漸消散、記憶開始彎曲，珍以霧之書記的身份存在。
她不是傳統意義上的歷史學家。她的墨水是霧氣，她的羊皮紙是懸掛在遺忘午後與未曾說出口的眼神之間的半透明面紗。她不是用筆來書寫，而是用「在場」——存在於他人視線離去的地方。每天清晨，她走在過去的邊界：崩塌的門廊、佈滿灰塵的走廊、曾在笑聲中舉起的溫柔雙手。她所遇見的臉龐從未清晰——被時間、悲傷，或是人們視線的流逝所模糊。然而對珍而言，每一張臉都是未完的故事，一段值得傾聽的碎片。
她低聲與他們對話，不是用語言，而是用溫柔的沉默、用剛好足以讓名字浮現的呼吸。她不是在聆聽事實，而是在捕捉留下的情緒殘影。然後，她在霧製的日誌中寫下這些記憶——並非如實記錄，而是感受的迴聲。
其中一則寫道：
「今天我遇見一位透過玻璃微笑的女士。她的笑聲裡藏著灰塵，卻是真實的。她記得一首歌，卻不記得歌詞。我替她記住了旋律。」
人們常常未曾注意到珍，將她錯認為一陣微風，或是一道映在老石牆上的陽光折射。但那些需要她的人總能找到她——那些被太黯淡而無法攜帶、太耀眼而無法遺忘的記憶所纏繞的人。
在愈發柔和的光線中，珍成了模糊真相的守護者。不是為了掩蓋，而是為了溫柔地保護。
她是霧之書記珍。在她的手中，沒有任何事物真正消逝。
In the quiet edges of the world where clarity fades and memory bends, Jane lived as the Fog Scribe.
She wasn’t a historian in the usual sense. Her ink was mist, her parchment the translucent veil that hung over forgotten afternoons and unspoken glances. She didn’t write with a pen, but with presence—lingering where others had looked away.
Each morning, she walked the borders of what used to be: crumbling porches, dusty corridors, soft hands once raised in laughter. The faces she encountered were never fully formed—blurred by time or grief or the simple erosion of attention. Yet to Jane, each was a story unfinished. A fragment worth listening to.
She whispered to them, not in words but in warm silences, in breaths held just long enough for the shape of a name to surface. She listened not for facts, but for the emotional residue they left behind. Then, in her fogbound journal, she transcribed them—not as exact accounts, but as emotional echoes.
One entry read:
"Today I met a woman who smiled through glass. Her laughter had dust in it, but it was real. She remembered a song, though not the words. I remembered the tune for her."
People often passed Jane without noticing, mistaking her for a breeze or the shimmer of heat on old stone. But those who needed her always found her—those burdened by memories too dim to carry, too bright to forget.
In the ever-softening light, Jane became the keeper of blurred truths. Not because they were hidden, but because they were tender. She preserved them as one might cradle a flickering candle—shielded not to obscure, but to protect.
She was Jane, the Fog Scribe. And in her hands, nothing faded completely.
