彼女は、読まれた記憶の残り滓。

The 35-year-old Asian woman, a librarian, was wearing layers of ripped black silk and old velvet, her shoulders and elbows frayed as if melted by time, revealing skin that was pale gray, as if it had absorbed faded moonlight, with tiny streaks of light running through it like scratches. Her hair was long and messy, a silver-gray color, several strands of which floated in the air like ghostly hands. Her eyes were grotesque, with two overlapping pupils in a single iris: the left was copper-red, the right jet black. Her expression was somewhat stunned, inorganic, like someone who had lost their memory. With her right hand, she gently turned the pages of a book floating in the air. Instead of words, faces appeared and disappeared one after another on the pages. Her left hand was unconsciously stroking the thin black chain around her neck. The only source of lighting is the flame of a candle that has fallen to the floor, its shadow stretching out across her figure in three layers, while countless books at the back of the bookshelf open by themselves and continue to write in blood-red ink. The angle is from a low position, looking up, and the composition shows her lower body in full view, with her upper body submerged in shadow. In the background, a starless night sky peeks out from a gap in the bookshelf that reaches all the way to the ceiling, and within it, a single constellation slowly changes shape. The style is natural, yet vague, like a memory in a dream.