Her garden wasn't just a sanctuary of petals and shade; it was a threshold, a place where sound softened and the invisible spoke.
2025.06.29
珍早已精通傾聽的藝術——不是傾聽聲音，而是傾聽聲音之間的空隙。作為園中傾聽者，她的日子總是在綻放的枝葉與沾滿露水的葉片間度過，細細捕捉大地呼吸間的寧靜交響。
清晨，她總會在那張白色鐵製桌上放上兩只茶杯——一只為自己，另一只獻給任何可能造訪的存在：一隻知更鳥、一縷微風，或一段遺落的記憶。她的花園不僅是花瓣與陰影的庇護所，更是一個門檻，一個輪廓模糊、萬物低語的所在。珍深信，有些故事只能在世界變得朦朧時才聽得見，在輪廓融入色彩、寂靜如霧繚繞時才得以顯現。那時，她便會靠在椅背，閉上雙眼，任花園傾訴。花瓣以色彩低語；葉片以顫抖的綠訴說旅程；就連桌下的陰影，也低吟著遺忘的搖籃曲。
村子裡的人們紛紛前來尋她——不是為了尋求建議，而是為了記起什麼。他們靜靜坐在她對面，讓靜默沉澱。珍只是默默傾聽。有時，故事隨著一縷氣味飄來；有時，藏在灌木叢的輕響中。她會輕柔地將其轉譯，不說話，只以會意的眼神與一杯像晨光一樣溫暖的茶相待。
沒人知道珍如何聽見那些聲音。但每個與她對坐過的人，離開時都輕盈了些，彷彿負擔隨風飄散，如落葉般無聲。
在這個充斥喧囂的世界裡，珍帶來了靜謐。而在她的靜謐之中，那些被遺忘的聲音，於花園中再次綻放。
Jane had long mastered the art of listening—not to voices, but to the spaces between them. As the Garden Listener, she spent her days among blooming branches and dew-dusted leaves, tuning into the quiet symphony of the earth’s breath.
In the mornings, she would place two teacups on the white wrought iron table—one for herself and one for whoever might come: a robin, a drifting breeze, or the echo of a memory. Her garden wasn’t just a sanctuary of petals and shade; it was a threshold, a place where sound softened and the invisible spoke.
Jane believed that some stories could only be heard when the world blurred, when outlines melted into color and silence curled around your ears like mist. That's when she would lean back into her chair and close her eyes, allowing the garden to speak. Petals whispered in color; leaves confessed their journeys in trembling green; even the shadows under the table hummed with forgotten lullabies.
People from the village came seeking her—not for advice, but to remember. They sat across from her and let the quiet settle. And Jane would simply listen. Sometimes, the stories arrived as a scent in the breeze, other times as a rustle in the hedge. She translated them gently, offering not words, but knowing glances and tea the color of early sunlight.
No one knew how Jane heard the things she did. But those who sat with her left lighter, their burdens rustling away like leaves shaken loose by the wind.
In a world full of noise, Jane offered stillness. And in her stillness, the forgotten voices of the garden bloomed again.
