2025.07.02
Jane was not known for his disclosure, but for what he had hidden slowly. Being a curtain of the forgotten gallery, he spent his days in the list of faces that had been softened by time, layers of gauze, dust or memory. Its fingers, which are always wrapped in thin cotton gloves, turn the velvet lader pages filled with entries of the faces that are no longer present – at least not clearly. He was faded through war, distance, grief, or by design.
Every day, the gene stood in front of a vast wall of portraits. Most visitors only saw the vague outline, an unclear expression through mesh, age, or structure. But Jane had trained her eyes to look at layers – a smile under the distortion, or to see the trace of the sadness hidden behind the stitched curtain. Not every face was erased, but was rewritten softly.
He did not restore the pictures. It was never his job. Instead, he translated them. He whispered with the veil and heard for his answer. In the pictures, silent eyes often appeared to be blinking, when they read their faded stories in the archives – migration stories, wait, incomplete letters stories.
A blurred evening, Jane discovered a new face that was hit in a forgotten drawer. Unlike others, it seems that it looks directly towards it. The veil was not vague – it was protecting. Jane stopped. She realized that this face could be her own, with the memory she had not yet been.
He closed the drawer, made a cautious note in his ledger, and added only two words under the image: “Not yet.”