彼女の涙は、本に残せなかった言葉。

The 30-year-old Asian woman, a librarian, is clad in a gleaming, wet black satin dress. The dress clings to her skin like a shadow growing from her body, running down from her chest like black water. Her skin is as cold as marble wet with night dew, and on its surface are faint traces of writing—fragments of an erased love letter. Her long, black hair sways like waves, and every time its tip touches the floor, tiny letters appear and then quickly disappear. Her eyes contain three overlapping pupils within a single iris, each reflecting a language from a different era. Her expression is emotionless, but deep within her sanity lies a quiet despair, knowing that she is "a substitute for the memory of a book." With her right hand, she is trying to open a floating book with her fingertips, but the pages are filled with fragments of her memories, and every time she looks at them, tears from her childhood fall into the air. Her left hand is unconsciously trying to untie the thin black chain around her neck, at the end of which dangles a small copper plate engraved with her name. The lighting, a pale green light filtering through the spines of the books, casts an ethereal light on her figure, and shadows flow backward from floor to ceiling, like reversed time. The angle captures her shoulder from the side and the countless books spread out behind her, opening up by themselves, their letters rising into the sky. The background is not a bookshelf, but an entire wall made up of the pages of open books, within which someone's voice repeats, "Don't go back anymore." The style is a natural fantasy, like capturing fragments of a dream, and the atmosphere is like the morning mist in a graveyard of memories.