Some dreams refused to settle, trembling with the fear of being erased. For them, Jane hummed lullabies, her voice weaving threads of light through the trembling mist.
2025.11.04
珍沒有書，只有一層層閃爍著半記憶色彩的空氣。每天清晨，她攤開手，收集夢的碎片——笑聲的閃光、臉龐的輪廓、從未落下的雨的氣味。她的任務是典藏世界所遺忘的一切：觸碰後殘留的溫度、一首曾撫慰不安心靈的旋律。
在她的房間裡，空氣如柔軟的潮流流動，夾帶著時間的低語。當她工作時，整個空間彷彿在呼吸——在記憶展開時擴張，在安息時收斂。有些夢拒絕安定，顫抖著害怕被抹除。為了安撫它們，珍輕哼搖籃曲，讓聲音在霧光中織出微亮的絲線。她早已忘了哪些夢屬於自己。記憶與夢的界線漸漸消融，只剩下呼吸的節奏：吸入遺失，吐出重現。夜晚，她睡在夢的典藏旁，呼吸與它們的節奏一致。她偶爾在夢裡看見微笑的臉龐，也許他們在向她道謝，也許那是她所選擇遺忘的倒影。
翌日清晨，她再次起身，攤開手掌，迎向無形的風，繼續那份溫柔的記憶工作。
Jane had no books, only layers of air that shimmered with half-remembered colors. Each dawn, she opened her hands to gather fragments of dreams—flickers of laughter, the outline of a face, the scent of rain that never fell. Her task was to archive what the world had forgotten: the warmth that lingered after a touch, the faint hum of a melody that once soothed a restless mind.
Inside her chamber, the air moved like a soft current, carrying whispers between the folds of time. When she worked, the room seemed to breathe—expanding as memories unfolded, contracting when they found rest. Some dreams refused to settle, trembling with the fear of being erased. For them, Jane hummed lullabies, her voice weaving threads of light through the trembling mist.
She had long forgotten which dreams were hers. The boundary between remembering and dreaming dissolved until only rhythm remained: inhale the lost, exhale the found. Each night, she slept beside the archives, her breath syncing with theirs. In her sleep, she sometimes saw faces that smiled in recognition. Perhaps they were thanking her. Or perhaps they were reminders of what she had chosen to forget.
The next morning, she would rise again, open her palms to the invisible wind, and begin the gentle work of remembering.
