Her skill was not in recording but in reconstructing, re-layering them into audible constellations.
2025.07.22
珍在靜默中工作，但她的存在在每個被遺忘的記憶觀測所走廊裡低聲共鳴。她的任務單純卻無限：傾聽回聲——那些曾充滿消逝空間的聲音、笑語與悲傷的碎片。
她不只是檔案保管者，而是織者。每天早晨，珍走入一間如摺疊亞麻般凝著霧氣的房間。她的工具有的像風鈴，有的以玻璃雕刻而成，用以捕捉殘留的細語，轉瞬即逝的聲音回響。她不僅是錄下它們，而是重新編織——如星座般的聲音網絡。
曾有一次，她從一所廢棄學校的牆上取回一聲兒童的輕笑；另一天，一位老人的悔語飄浮在被燒毀劇院的一隅。珍從不評斷這些聲音，只是給予它們庇護。
人們從遠方前來聆聽她的織聲。他們聽見的不是完整故事，而是些微閃現——而這些閃現，已足以修補某些破損。
多數人從未見過珍的臉，她總被工作所遮蔽。但那些願意久留的，曾聲稱瞥見她——既不年輕，也不老，而是被每一道回聲形塑而成。
Jane worked in silence, but her presence hummed in every forgotten hallway of the Memory Observatory. Her task was singular yet infinite: to listen for echoes—fragments of voices, laughter, or sorrow that once filled the rooms of vanished places.
She didn’t just archive sound; she wove it.
Each morning, Jane entered a chamber where fog settled like folded linen. With her delicate instruments—some resembling wind chimes, others made of etched glass—she captured residual murmurs, echoes of things not meant to last. Her skill was not in recording but in reconstructing, re-layering them into audible constellations. What emerged were not memories, but patterns—melodies of collective forgetting.
Once, she retrieved a tremble of a child’s giggle from the walls of an abandoned school. Another day, the whispered regret of an old man hung in the corner of a burned theatre. Jane never judged the sounds. She simply offered them sanctuary.
People came from afar to listen to her tapestries. They didn’t hear full stories, only flickers—yet those flickers were enough to mend something frayed inside them.
Jane remained faceless to most, obscured by the veil of her work. But those who lingered long enough claimed they glimpsed her—not young, not old, but shaped by every echo she carried.
