Her words echoed with the weight of hundreds of lifetimes. Her presence was soft yet persistent, like the last voice one hears before sleep.
2025.07.27
在諾雷爾鎮，有一道沒有門的長廊，只掛著一幅厚重的天鵝絨帷幕與影子。少有人敢走進去，更少有人能再回來。人們低聲談論一位名叫珍的女人，她住在那道帷幕之後，不全是生者，也不全是亡靈。
珍是「界門守記者」。她的責任不是守護，而是記憶。每位穿越者都帶來一段記憶──有時鮮明，有時模糊。珍鮮少言語，但一開口，那話語中就蘊藏著百千生命的重量。她的存在輕柔卻持久，像入眠前的最後一聲低語。
她常坐在無火的壁爐旁，閉著眼，手指在空氣中描繪著無形的軌跡。有人說她能記起一位哭泣寡婦的最後念頭，或是未曾久留的初生嬰兒的第一聲笑。她記得未完成的搖籃曲，被遺忘的承諾，還有風中逐漸消失的名字。
人們帶來信件、照片、那些情感太沉重的物件。她從不收藏，只是短暫握住，然後還給對方，讓它們變得輕盈，不再那麼銳利。
有一天，帷幕自行掀起。人們驚呼，以為什麼改變了，卻發現一切如常。珍依舊坐著，微微一笑。有人穿越了。或者，也許是有人歸來了。
不論哪種，平衡依舊未被打破。
In the quiet town of Norell, there was a hallway with no door but a heavy curtain of velvet and shadow. Few dared to step through, and even fewer returned. The townspeople whispered of a woman named Jane who lived beyond that curtain, neither entirely alive nor entirely gone.
Jane was the Threshold Keeper.
Her role was not to guard, but to remember. Every soul who passed through brought a memory—sometimes vivid, sometimes faded. Jane didn’t speak much, but when she did, her words echoed with the weight of hundreds of lifetimes. Her presence was soft yet persistent, like the last voice one hears before sleep.
She often sat by the fireless hearth, eyes closed, her fingers tracing unseen patterns in the air. Some said she could recall the final thought of a weeping widow or the first laugh of a newborn who didn’t stay long. She remembered the unfinished lullabies, the forgotten promises, the faded names etched in sand.
People brought her letters, photographs, things too heavy with meaning. She never kept them—just held them briefly, then returned them a little lighter, a little less sharp.
One day, the curtain lifted on its own. The townspeople gasped, expecting change, but found nothing had shifted. Jane remained seated, smiling faintly. Someone had crossed. Or perhaps returned.
Either way, the balance was intact.
