彼女の髪は、読まれなかった言葉の墓標。

The 26-year-old Asian woman, a librarian, wears a silk dress woven with sheer black gauze and frozen moonlight. Her skin is as cold as white flowers buried beneath the ice, almost translucent to the touch. Her hair is long, countless strands, each dyed in a different shade of silver and purple, dancing slowly in the windless space, as if possessed of consciousness. One of her eyes is filled with the words inscribed on an ancient scroll, while the other is as deep as a pitch-black hole; gazing into it, one's own memories are drawn in. She wears a faint smile, but beneath that smile lies a quiet awareness that she is the remnants of someone's dream. With both hands, she lightly touches a floating pen to her forehead. The ink dripping from the pen forms letters in the air, repeating her past words before disappearing. The lighting is not moonlight filtering in through the skylight, but a pale indigo light emanating from the tips of her hair, illuminating the entire room, all shadows cast in the opposite direction. The angle is slightly diagonally above and in front of her, capturing her face and the countless fragments of memory floating behind her - her childhood self, her crying mother, the titles of missing books - floating like shards of glass. The background is not a bookshelf, but an entire wall covered in the pages of an open book, within which someone's voice can be heard murmuring the same words over and over again. The style is a poetic modern snapshot, but its stillness is like a phantom memory from which everyone turns away.