When she worked, the air shimmered with faint echoes — laughter, a sigh, the hum of unfinished conversations.
2025.10.27
珍曾以為，記憶是身體會遺忘、但肌膚會記住的東西。她每日在兩個世界之間的花園中工作，那裡生長著透明的根系——光的纖維，承載著低語、遺憾與被遺落的溫柔。她的任務是將這些纖維編織起來，讓靈魂之間隱形的流動重獲形體。
每天清晨，她把手浸入露水的盆中，輕聲呼喚那些被時間吞沒的名字。掌心的血脈微微發亮，像老友般回應。當她開始工作，空氣閃爍著微光——笑聲、嘆息、未完成的對話。人們前來找她，不是為了治癒，而是為了回想：母親手心的溫度、戀人髮梢的氣味、悲傷之前的陽光。但珍深知過度回憶的危險。她編得越多，自己體內的血脈就越深，成為他人故事的地圖。黃昏時，她靜靜坐著，用指尖描繪那些發亮的紋理——那是眾人生命的線索。
某個夜裡，暴風掠過花園，她驀然明白：自己已成為那張巨網的一部分。世界的脈絡在她體內脈動——她不再分離，也不再凡俗。她微笑著，不是因為驕傲，而是因為理解：記憶，已選她為器。
Jane once believed that memory was something the body forgot, but the skin remembered. She spent her days tending to a garden of translucent roots that grew between worlds — strands of light that carried whispers, regrets, and small fragments of forgotten tenderness. Her task was to weave these filaments into new connections, giving shape to the invisible circulation between souls.
Each morning, she dipped her hands into a basin filled with dew and murmured the names of those who had been lost in time. The veins beneath her palms glowed faintly, responding like old friends. When she worked, the air shimmered with faint echoes — laughter, a sigh, the hum of unfinished conversations. People came to her not for healing, but for remembering: the warmth of a mother’s hand, the scent of a lover’s hair, the texture of sunlight before sorrow.
But Jane knew the danger of too much remembrance. The more she wove, the more the veins in her own body deepened, becoming visible maps of others’ stories. At dusk, she would sit in silence, tracing the glowing lines across her arms, each one a living thread of someone else’s life.
One night, as a storm rolled through her garden, Jane realized she had become part of the very web she wove. The veins of the world pulsed through her — she was no longer separate, no longer mortal. She smiled, not out of pride, but understanding: memory had claimed her as its vessel.
