The library's air trembled with centuries of unspoken stories, and Jane, attuned to these frequencies, translated them into melodies no one else could hear.
2025.10.25
珍早已不再以尋常的方式閱讀書本。她不再翻頁，也不再用眼睛追隨文字。她傾聽。不是聽文字本身，而是聽那些夾在字裡行間的震動。每一本書都帶著微弱的嗡鳴──那是墨與紙之間曾經說話的靈魂餘韻。珍會將手放在合上的書封上，緩緩呼吸，便能聽見被遺忘的生命低語。
有些日子，那些聲音尖銳如辯；另一些日子，它們柔軟如嘆──詩句裡母親的呼息。圖書館的空氣因千年的未竟故事而微微顫動，珍，敏銳地捕捉這些頻率，將它們化為世人未聞的旋律。她的錄音從未具象。那是層層低語與閃爍聲光的交織。聆聽的人說，他們彷彿聞到了雨午後的氣味，看見了遺失的童年書本，或想起一場幾乎被遺忘的夢。
珍從不自稱為創作者。她只是沉默與聲音、存在與缺席之間的導體。她曾說：「傾聽即是愛，而愛，意味著放下理解的執念。」
Jane had long stopped reading books in the ordinary way. She no longer turned pages or traced sentences with her eyes. Instead, she listened. Not to the words themselves, but to the quiet vibrations that lingered between them. Each book carried a faint hum — a residue of the voices that once spoke through ink and paper. Jane would rest her hands upon a closed cover, breathe slowly, and hear the murmurs of forgotten lives.
Some days, the sounds were sharp: an argument caught between two paragraphs. On others, they were tender — a mother’s sigh woven into a poem. The library’s air trembled with centuries of unspoken stories, and Jane, attuned to these frequencies, translated them into melodies no one else could hear.
Her recordings were never literal. They came as gentle pulses of sound, layered whispers shaped into shimmering tones. When people listened, they said they felt memories they didn’t know they had — the scent of a rainy afternoon, a childhood book long lost, a dream they almost remembered.
Jane never claimed authorship. She was merely a conduit between silence and sound, presence and absence. To listen was to love, she once said, and to love was to let go of the need to understand.
