Her loom was unseen, yet the room shimmered faintly when she worked. When a tapestry was complete, she held it against the light, letting its stories breathe.
2025.10.07
在黎明的靜謐裡，珍開始她的工作。她的指尖在空氣中游走，彷彿能撫摸到無形的絲線——從寂靜中拉出笑聲、呢喃與嘆息。每一縷線都閃著微光，是被遺忘的瞬間殘影。有些細如塵埃、脆弱易斷，有些則亮如晨曦，隱約振動，彷彿仍有生命。珍將它們織成細膩的錦幕——笑過的臉、未說出口的話、停留於時間紋理的手勢。她的織機無形，但當她工作時，房間泛著微光。當一幅記憶之織完成，她舉向光線，讓故事再次呼吸。那些圖紋會緩緩消散，回到空氣之中，但餘溫始終留在人間。
有個孩子問她：「為什麼妳總在作品消失時微笑？」
珍說：「因為它們從不屬於我，只屬於被再次感受的那一刻。」
對她而言，織不是為了保存，而是為了釋放——讓生命的織布保持開放、滲透、並原諒。
黃昏時分，空氣閃爍著光的細絲，她的手掌散出柔亮的光。從她的眼中，可以看見無數生命的回聲，靜靜編織在她的溫柔之中。
In the quiet folds of dawn, Jane began her work. Her fingers moved through the air as if tracing invisible threads, pulling glimmers of laughter, whispers, and sighs from the stillness. Each strand she touched shimmered faintly—an echo of a forgotten moment. Some threads were thin and brittle, others bright and elastic, humming softly as though alive.
Jane wove them into delicate tapestries—faces that once smiled, words that were never said aloud, gestures suspended in the weave of time. Her loom was unseen, yet the room shimmered faintly when she worked. When a tapestry was complete, she held it against the light, letting its stories breathe. The woven memories would dissolve slowly, returning to the air from which they came, but their warmth always lingered.
Once, a child asked her why she smiled when her creations vanished. “Because they were never meant to stay,” Jane replied. “They were meant to be felt again.” For her, weaving was not about keeping but about releasing—letting the fabric of life remain open, porous, and forgiving.
As twilight arrived, the air around her sparkled faintly, each thread unspooling into the horizon. Jane rested her hands, her palms glowing with a soft radiance. In her eyes, one could glimpse the reflection of countless lives, all woven through her gentle craft.
