There was no date, no name, only the faint rush of water in the background. Jane felt an unfamiliar ache, as though she had brushed against her own memory.
2025.08.09
珍總是被那些被遺忘聲音的微弱回響所吸引。作為一名無形歷史的檔案員，她的白天在一間安靜的工作室中度過，四周堆滿了磁帶卷軸、漸漸褪色的照片，以及墨跡已經開始溶解成沉默的脆弱紙張。然而，她真正的工作始於夜晚，當外面的世界歸於靜止之時。
她會坐在唯一一盞桌燈下，戴著耳機，聆聽被雜訊包裹的對話片段——早已消失的市集中傳來的低語、沒有人再會說的語言中的輕聲承諾，以及那些早已失去純真的孩子們的笑聲。每一個聲音都是一條線，而珍將它們編織成從未被看見的生命掛毯。某個夜晚，她偶然找到了一捲沒有標籤的錄音。那是一位女子的聲音，柔和卻急切，談及在蒼白月光下、河邊的一場會面。沒有日期，沒有名字，只有背景中微弱的流水聲。珍感到一種陌生的疼痛，彷彿觸碰到了自己的記憶。她花了數週搜尋檔案，透過舊地圖、天氣紀錄與零碎的日記追索那段聲音，卻始終找不到源頭。
最後，珍明白這個聲音並不需要被辨認。重點不是解開謎團，而是延續它。她錄下自己重複那位女子的話語，讓自己的聲音與那幽靈般的聲音融合，直至無法分辨。她將新的錄音帶放回檔案中，依然沒有標籤。
多年後，也許會有另一個人發現它，而循環將繼續——一場無盡的記憶接力，每位檔案員都將自己的呼吸加入被遺忘的合唱中。
Jane had always been drawn to the faint echoes of forgotten voices. As an archivist of intangible histories, she spent her days in a quiet studio lined with reels of magnetic tape, fading photographs, and fragile paper records whose ink had begun to dissolve into silence. But her true work began at night, when the world outside stilled.
She would sit by a single desk lamp, headphones on, listening to fragments of conversations caught in static—murmurs from marketplaces long vanished, whispered promises in languages no one spoke anymore, the laughter of children who had long outlived their own innocence. Each sound was a thread, and Jane wove them together, crafting unseen tapestries of lives that once were.
One night, she stumbled upon an unlabeled recording. A woman’s voice, soft but urgent, spoke of a meeting by a river under a pale moon. There was no date, no name, only the faint rush of water in the background. Jane felt an unfamiliar ache, as though she had brushed against her own memory. She searched the archives for weeks, tracing the sound through old maps, weather records, and fragmented diaries, but the source remained elusive.
In the end, Jane realized the voice didn’t need to be identified. It wasn’t about solving the mystery—it was about carrying it forward. She recorded herself repeating the woman’s words, her own voice merging with the ghostly one until they were indistinguishable. She placed the new reel back into the archive, unlabeled.
Years from now, someone else might find it, and the cycle would continue—an endless relay of memory, each archivist adding their breath to the chorus of the forgotten.
