he tuned her body to the vibration of the unseen, letting forgotten melodies seep into her bones until they became part of her.
2025.10.05
珍能聽見他人無法察覺的聲音。她在被遺忘的房間角落裡，捕捉微弱的呢喃——曾經說出的話語、半記得的歌聲、懸浮於牆壁之間的笑聲。對她而言，時間不會抹去聲音，只是將它溶入人們聽不見的頻率。珍用透明的共鳴瓶收藏這些聲音，讓每一道嗚咽與呢喃都有歸宿。
她的天賦不是「聽見」，而是「承載」。她相信每個聲音都有靈魂——每一口氣息是一段愛，每一次哭泣是一段記憶。當人們追逐影像與光線時，珍建構了一座聲音的博物館。她的身體成為共振的容器，讓被遺忘的旋律滲入骨骼，與她合而為一。當城市入睡，珍打開那些瓶子。空氣中閃爍著舊時的聲音——雨夜的腳步、翻頁的顫抖、逝去的呼吸。她微笑著，並非出於哀傷，而是出於共鳴。因為她自己，也是一道迴聲——某個曾經明亮的存在，仍在當下震盪。
Jane listened to what others could not. In the quiet corners of forgotten rooms, she could hear faint murmurs—words once spoken, songs half-remembered, laughter suspended between walls. Time never erased sound for her; it merely dissolved it into frequencies too soft for others to perceive. Jane collected them in transparent jars of resonance, each hum and whisper finding a home.
Her gift was not about hearing, but about holding. She believed every sound carried a soul—each sigh a fragment of love, each cry an echo of memory. While people around her chased after images and light, Jane built an archive of tones, a museum of breaths. She tuned her body to the vibration of the unseen, letting forgotten melodies seep into her bones until they became part of her.
When the city slept, Jane opened the jars. The air shimmered with the voices of those who once lived, the sound of footsteps on wet pavement, the trembling of pages turned by hands now gone. She smiled, not in sorrow but in kinship, for she too was an echo—an aftertone of something once bright, still reverberating in the present.
