2025.10.25
Jane had long since stopped reading books in the normal way. He no longer traced pages or sentences with his eyes. Instead, he listened. Not for the words, but for the silent vibrations that swirl between them. Every book has a faint audacity. Jane would rest her hands on a closed cover, breathe slowly, and listen to the murmur of forgotten lives.
Some days, the voices were loud: an argument was caught between two paragraphs. At others, they were tender — woven into a mother’s poem. The air of the library vibrated with stories unspoken for centuries, and Jain, attuned to these frequencies, translated them into melodies that no one else could hear.
His recordings were never verbatim. They came like gentle pulses of sound, layered whispers shaped into shimmering tones. When people listened, they said they felt memories they didn’t know they had.
Jane never claimed authorship. She was merely a conduit between silence and sound, presence and absence. Love was to listen, he once said, and love was to let go of the need to understand.