She heard the laughter of those long gone, the quiet apology of a storm, the heartbeat of a tree remembering spring.
2025.10.28
珍曾相信，沉默並非聲音的缺席，而是那些過於微弱、只能被靈魂聽見的聲音的聚集之地。她常在傍晚坐在窗邊，注視著一道道微光如細線般飄入，每一條都攜帶著某個被遺忘的瞬間——一句話的停頓、一場告白前的呼吸。珍耐心地編織著它們，指尖隨著記憶的脈動而移動。
遠方的人們將自己的沉默裝入玻璃瓶寄來，希望她能聽見他們再也聽不見的聲音。當珍傾聽時，空氣微微顫動；色彩變化；無形之物漸漸顯現。她聽見早已逝去的笑聲、暴風雨的歉意、還記得春天的樹之心跳。隨著時間流逝，她的髮絲泛起銀光，倒影的邊緣變得模糊——彷彿她自身也被重新編入那無盡的織體之中。然而珍並不畏懼消散。對她而言，每一次解織都是一種重生，每一條線都是一個承諾：沒有什麼真正消失，它只是換了一種音色。
黃昏時，她輕聲哼唱，而那些線也隨之回應——一種柔軟而無盡的和弦，像家的聲音。
Jane once believed that silence was not the absence of sound but the gathering place of voices too soft to be heard. She spent her evenings beside a window where threads of faint light drifted in like whispers. Each thread carried a trace of someone’s forgotten moment — a breath between words, a pause before confession. Jane would sit with them patiently, her fingers moving in rhythm with memory’s pulse.
People from distant towns sent her their silence in small glass bottles, hoping she could hear what they no longer could. When Jane listened, the air trembled; colors shifted; the invisible became audible. She heard the laughter of those long gone, the quiet apology of a storm, the heartbeat of a tree remembering spring.
Over time, her hair caught traces of silver light, and her reflection blurred at the edges — as if her own being was being rewoven into the weave she tended. Yet Jane never feared dissolution. For her, every unraveling was also a beginning, every thread a promise that nothing truly vanished — it only changed tone.
At dusk, she would hum to the threads, and they hummed back — a soft, endless chord that sounded like home.
