2025.10.13
Jane was walking around the delicate passage of half -memorable dreams. Each step he made a stirring piece of color that once belonged to someone’s memory. He was not a collector of things, but because of the emotions of sleep and waking up, the artifacts of those who once felt deeply to forget.
There was no shelf in its protected documents, only in the flowing pans of light where memories shine. A baby’s laughter echoed like glass bells, and at the same time, a farewell earthquake. Jane moved carefully, knowing that every memory, though unconscious, can still be cut off silence if it is handled too much. He breathed through them through the silk, allowed everyone to dissolve and reopen, and changed the color with its pulse.
Sometimes, she lived before a memory that was not her – a face was described in the dim of loss, or a word is spoken for a long time. He did not try to fix what was blurred. Instead, he allowed the fading to speak. Because in his quiet work, he believed that forgetfulness was another form of care.
When the day was over, Jane sat down to her protected documents and let the last dream go into her open palms. Before it was drowned in her skin, it was once warm and golden. The outside world will never know what he has taken, yet everything he has touched unconsciously with memory – as if he himself has become a dream, we are remembering all gently.