Each morning, Jane walks through veils of mist and memory, gathering faded scents and fragments of conversations.
2025.06.28
在那片被遺忘的原野裡，時間輕柔彎曲，珍默默照料著那些沒人再記得的花園。
她是記憶園丁，一位靜靜守護著曾經某個夏天存在過的花朵的人。空著的椅子依然記得笑聲；成雙的粉紅色茶杯，仍溫熱著曾在清晨低語過的故事。珍不需要被看見——她的存在繡在空氣裡，隱藏在清醒與回憶的模糊邊界中。每天清晨，珍穿過迷霧與記憶的薄紗，收集已淡去的香氣與對話的碎片。她栽培的花朵從回憶中長出——花瓣由情感塑成，葉子由過往的瞬間展開。那是被遺忘的生日，一場在雨中親吻的初戀，某人停止等待的那天。她輕輕從土中引出這些記憶，不為保存，只為讓它們再次呼吸。
她把它們插在沉默的花瓶中，不是為了展示，而是為了邀請重訪。她知道，記憶如同花園，不需清晰也能真實。模糊的邊界承載柔軟，曖昧守護著那些真相無法承受的片段。
來訪的人常不知道自己遇見了珍。他們漫步進這片花田，只為了呼吸、歇腳、一種似曾相識的悸動。有人落淚，有人微笑，每個人都帶著些原以為早已遺失的東西離開。
而珍依然存在，在無形中修剪、灌溉、播種那些幾近遺忘的喜悅。她只對風低語，讓風將這些被栽種的回聲帶回人間——進入夢中、靜謐裡、或你忽然停下來、感覺曾經來過的那一刻。
就在那時，她再度消失在記憶的柔和嗡鳴中，繼續她那無聲的園藝。
In the forgotten field where time bends gently, Jane tends to gardens no one else remembers.
She is the Memory Gardener, a quiet keeper of blooms that once lived in someone’s summer. The chairs, though empty, recall laughter; the cups, pink and twin, still warm with stories once whispered over morning tea. Jane doesn’t need to be seen—her presence is etched in the air, in the blur between waking and remembering.
Each morning, Jane walks through veils of mist and memory, gathering faded scents and fragments of conversations. The flowers she cultivates are grown from recollection—petals shaped by emotions, leaves unfolding from moments long past. A forgotten birthday. A first kiss beneath rain. The day someone stopped waiting. These she coaxes gently from the soil, not to preserve, but to let breathe.
She places them in vases of silence, not to display but to invite return. She knows that memories, like gardens, don’t need to be sharp to be real. Blurred edges hold softness; ambiguity protects what truth can’t bear.
Visitors don’t often realize they’ve met Jane. They wander into the field for a breath, a rest, a flicker of déjà vu. Some cry. Others smile. All leave with something they didn’t know they’d lost.
Jane remains, pruning the unseen, watering the intangible, sowing seeds of almost-remembered joys. She speaks only to the wind, who helps her carry these gardened echoes back to the world—into dreams, into sudden stillness, into that moment you pause, sensing you’ve been here before.
And just like that, she vanishes again into the soft hum of memory, where her hands continue their quiet tending.
