She would sit in the misty morning air, her hand resting gently on the table’s edge, letting the vibrations rise.
2025.07.27
每天清晨，珍都靜靜地坐在朦朧光影中的花園裡，那裡的形體比起具體，更像是回憶的輪廓。她是花園迴音師，一位傾聽遺忘笑聲的人，專門收集那些藏在草叢中、溫暖金屬裡的回音。
她的工作不是修剪或澆水，而是「調頻」。從前，這座花園曾熱鬧非凡——朋友品茶、戀人低語、孩子追逐蝴蝶。他們的聲音曾經那麼鮮明，如今卻被時光埋進了土壤，像晚夏空氣裡的花粉一樣飄忽。大多數人經過時不曾察覺，但珍能聽見。
她坐在晨霧中，手輕觸桌緣，讓那些微弱的震動浮現。身旁的椅子也許會低聲哼唱某位祖母的歌謠；那個花盆可能藏著某個曾經戀愛的人的一聲嘆息。這些既不是聲音也不是寂靜的振動，在珍的心中如頁頁書紙展開。她不說出來，只是聆聽，她的存在就足以喚醒它們。
某天清晨，她聽見了一道陌生的回音。微弱而遲疑——竟是自己年少時的聲音，那時她也曾相信午後永不結束。珍的眼角泛淚，卻微笑了。
那天，她在花園裡留下了一道新的回音——她溫柔的笑聲，像絲綢般輕輕融進空氣。
多年後，也許會有人坐在同一張桌子旁，在同樣朦朧的陽光下。他們或許也會聽見珍的迴音：不是悲傷或思念，而是存在的印記。提醒著——花園，從未忘記那些真正聆聽過的人。
Every morning, Jane sat quietly in the hazy light of the garden, where outlines of memory shimmered more than shapes. She was the Garden Echoist, a listener of forgotten laughter, the one who gathered echoes left behind in tangled grass and sun-warmed metal.
Her task was not to prune or water, but to tune in.
Long ago, this garden had been filled with visitors—friends sipping tea, lovers whispering secrets, children chasing butterflies. Their voices, once vibrant, had faded into the garden’s soil, trapped like pollen in late summer air. Most people passed by unaware, but Jane could hear them.
She would sit in the misty morning air, her hand resting gently on the table’s edge, letting the vibrations rise. The chair beside her might whisper a song hummed by a grandmother; the flowerpot might echo the sigh of someone once in love. These soft pulses—neither sound nor silence—unfolded like pages in Jane’s mind. She didn’t speak them aloud. She simply listened, her presence enough to coax them into bloom.
One morning, she heard a new echo. Faint, uncertain. It was her own voice, from a time when she too believed in endless afternoons. It was a reminder that she hadn’t always been the listener—once, she had been part of the laughter. Tears welled in her eyes, but she smiled.
That day, Jane left a new echo behind—her soft laughter, warm and light, folded into the air like silk.
Years from now, someone might sit at that same table, in the same blurred sunlight. And perhaps they, too, will hear Jane’s echo: not of sorrow or longing, but of presence. A reminder that the garden never forgets those who truly listen.
