Clients would sit across from her, gazing into the blur of her features, hypnotized by the swirls of green and rose across her eyelids - symbols of memory and concealment.
2025.05.20
在城市被遺忘的角落裡，人們稱她為「面紗解讀者珍」，一位能看穿現實縫隙閃爍之處的女人。她的臉，總是對他人來說略顯模糊，被說成是她視野觸及多重世界的倒影。人們來找她，不是為了獲得清晰的答案，而是尋求被隱喻與色彩包裹的真相。
她的工作室掛滿了舊天鵝絨窗簾，空氣中瀰漫著薰香與逐漸消散的音樂。來訪者坐在她對面，凝視著她模糊不清的五官，被她眼瞼間的綠與玫瑰色渲染所迷惑——那是記憶與隱匿的象徵。她從不眨眼，她的雙眼彷彿是折射時間線的深井。「你來這裡不是為了找答案，」她的聲音忽遠忽近，「你是來記起你早已知曉之事。」
她的解讀不靠占卜卡或星象，而是透過畫像——她在恍惚中作畫，抹去、重疊，直到主體如煙中幽靈般浮現。人們在看到自己的畫像時總會倒抽一口氣：畫中不是他們當下的樣貌，而是曾經的、害怕成為的，或曾幻想過的自己。
每一幅畫像都是一道門檻。看過之後，人們會有所轉變。長久未做的決定終於落實。遲遲未啟程的旅途終於展開。塵封的愛終於獲得哀悼。
珍從不保留畫像。她說那太不穩定，蘊含著過去與可能性。每次解讀後，她都會將畫像燒掉，任秘密隨煙升空。
沒有人知道珍從哪裡來。她像是在濃霧晨曦中走出的夢。也會像來時那般悄然離去——只留下傳說，如迷霧中低語般飄盪。
Jane was known in forgotten corners of the city as the “Veil Reader,” a woman who could see through the shimmer that separated realities. Her face, always slightly out of focus to others, was said to be a reflection of the many realms her vision touched. People came to her not for clarity, but for truth wrapped in metaphor, spoken in whispers and color.
Her studio was lined with old velvet curtains, the air thick with incense and fading music. Clients would sit across from her, gazing into the blur of her features, hypnotized by the swirls of green and rose across her eyelids—symbols of memory and concealment. She never blinked. Her eyes were wells that refracted timelines.
"You're not here to find answers," she'd say, voice both near and distant. "You're here to remember what you already know."
Her readings were not given with cards or stars, but through portraits—those she painted while in trance, smudging and layering until the subject emerged like a ghost in smoke. People gasped when they saw themselves on her canvas: not as they appeared, but as they had been, or feared becoming, or once imagined they'd be.
Each portrait was a threshold. And once a person saw theirs, something shifted. A decision long delayed was made. A departure finally happened. A love, long buried, was mourned properly.
Jane never kept the portraits. She said they were unstable, too full of past and possibility. She would burn them after each session, letting the smoke carry the secrets skyward.
No one knew where Jane had come from. She simply appeared one fog-heavy morning, as if stepping out from a dream. And as quietly as she came, she would vanish again—only her legend lingering, soft as a whisper in mist.
