She believed that images held memories not just of people, but of emotions, histories, and secrets long buried.
2025.02.03
珍一直生活在夾縫之中。既不完全屬於過去，也不完全停留在現在。當人們看向她時，總覺得有什麼在變化——一張無法定型的臉，一個在時間中滑落的身份。
她是一名遺失片段的收藏家，一位被遺忘面孔的檔案管理者。她的小型工作室裡堆滿了舊照片、半消失的肖像，以及一卷卷閃爍著模糊身影的底片。她相信，影像不僅承載著人物，還記錄著情感、歷史和埋藏已久的秘密。某天晚上，一位客戶帶來了一份特殊的委託——一疊褪色的照片，每張照片中都是同一個女人，卻又顯得奇異不同。在一張照片裡，女人的眼神銳利而堅定；在另一張裡，她的神情柔和，帶著憂傷。這些照片，雖然拍攝於不同的年代，卻彷彿暗示著一種不斷變化的身份。
珍將它們放到鏡頭下，調整光線，將一張疊加在另一張之上。隨著她的操作，層層影像逐漸模糊，融合成既不是過去也不是現在的形狀。她的手微微顫抖，因為那女人的輪廓竟在她眼前發生變化，扭曲、重新對齊。一股熟悉感襲來。那並不只是照片中的女人——那也是她自己的倒影逐漸浮現。
她屏住呼吸。難道自己才是這些影像的主角？難道她一直透過時間窺視的，是自己不同時期的樣貌？這個發現令人眩暈。
珍終於明白，她從來都不只是回憶的旁觀者，而是它們的載體，一張不斷變化的畫布，過去在上面不斷書寫。而當她凝視著自己支離破碎、層層交疊的臉龐時，她終於領悟——她將永遠介於被記住與被遺忘之間，模糊於曾經存在與永遠無法實現的可能之中。
Jane had always lived in the in-between. Not fully past, not entirely present. When people looked at her, they saw something shifting—a face that never settled, an identity slipping through time like sand between fingers.
She worked as a collector of lost moments, an archivist of forgotten faces. Her small studio was cluttered with old photographs, half-erased portraits, and reels of film where figures flickered like ghosts. She believed that images held memories not just of people, but of emotions, histories, and secrets long buried.
One evening, a client brought her an unusual commission—a stack of faded photographs, each featuring the same woman, yet strangely different. In one, the woman had sharp, defiant eyes; in another, her face was softer, melancholic. The photographs, though decades apart, seemed to whisper of a shifting identity.
Jane placed them beneath her lens, adjusting the light, overlaying one upon another. As she worked, the layers blurred, merging into something neither past nor present. Her hands trembled as the contours of the woman's face changed before her eyes, warping, realigning. A pulse of recognition struck her. It was not just the woman in the photographs—it was her own reflection bleeding through.
Her breath caught. Had she been the subject all along? Had she been glimpsing herself through time, her face woven into the fabric of forgotten lives? The realization was dizzying.
Jane knew then that she had never been a mere observer of memories. She had been their vessel, a shifting canvas upon which the past continued to write itself. And as she stared into the mirrored layers of her own fragmented face, she understood—she would always be both remembered and forgotten, blurred between what was and what could never be.
