Lines Made from the Last Working Marker- 適合中高級的英語短篇故事

"The adapter sits behind the screen."

Leander lifted the projector’s plastic cover, the edge giving a soft scrape that echoed along the quiet meeting room walls. Afternoon hum from ceiling vents mixed with the distant rattle of a stapler beyond the glass panel. A tidy box of whiteboard markers lay on the oval table; each cap clicked lightly when he tested it. Green, blue, red, black—every colour his supervisor had mentioned. He pictured bold arrows stretching across the board, a neat timeline ready before the team returned from the break room, where mugs clinked and someone’s knife kept tapping as they chop vegetables for a small after-work cooking class. Near the corridor window, two assistants paused to catch some rays, their laughter bouncing down the carpeted passage. A low drone from the projector fan covered their voices while the faint buzz of the printer drifted in waves, as regular as distant surf.

The first lines squeaked across the board, but the red ink thinned halfway through the word “April.” Leander shook the marker; only a dry rasp answered. Blue followed the same pattern, its tip scratching like sand on glass. The supply shelf beside the door offered no spares—earlier visitors had already thinned the stock. He tried the green pen; a full, rich stripe flowed, the scent of fresh solvent sharp in the air. Time kept slipping—the corridor clock ticked louder with every second—and the vents’ breath seemed to press on his ears, almost making him feel weightless for a moment. He trimmed his plan: only key months, one colour, simple arrows. While he worked, Troy and Fleur drifted past the doorway, voices low as they chat about life, their words a soft murmur under the steady vent noise. Somewhere in the break room, a colleague attempted to revive old traditions by placing a hand-written recipe beside steaming coffee, the page fluttering each time the fridge door closed.

Green ink now filled the final gap. Leander recapped the marker, and the quiet hiss of the fan continued while the single-colour timeline shone against faint ghosts of earlier meetings.

「轉接器就在螢幕後面。」

里安德掀起投影機的塑膠上蓋，邊緣與桌面摩擦出輕微的刷聲，在安靜的會議室牆面間迴盪。天花板通風孔的午後嗡鳴與玻璃隔板外釘書機的細碎撞擊混成一道背景音。橢圓桌上擺著一盒白板筆；他逐支試蓋，每一下都發出輕脆的卡嗒。綠、藍、紅、黑——正是主管提到的顏色。他腦中浮現粗直箭頭貫穿整面板的畫面，團隊從茶水間回來前就能看到一條整潔的時間線；那邊杯子碰杯聲此起彼落，有人用小刀切菜，刀身落在砧板上快速敲擊。走廊窗邊，兩名助理停下腳步曬太陽，笑聲沿著鋪毯通道彈回。投影機風扇低沉地轉著，把他們的聲音蓋住，列印機傳來的規律低嗡像遠浪。

第一筆在白板上尖銳地劃過，但紅色墨水在「April」字樣中途便逐漸變淡。里安德甩了甩筆，只有乾澀摩擦音回應。藍色也如此，筆尖刮得像砂紙。門邊的聽架沒有備用品——之前的人已把庫存用得所剩無幾。他改拿綠筆，一道飽滿筆跡湧出，溶劑的味道瞬間變得刺鼻。時間一點點流逝——走廊時鐘的滴答愈發明顯——通風口的氣流壓在他耳邊，他甚至短暫產生漂浮的錯覺。他縮減計畫：只標重點月份，一種顏色，簡單箭頭。在他忙碌時，特羅伊和芙勒經過門口，低聲談論生活，話語在穩定的通風聲下成為輕柔背景。茶水間裡，有人試圖恢復共用食譜的老傳統，手寫紙條貼在冒著熱氣的咖啡旁，冰箱門每關一次都讓紙張抖動。

綠筆最後填上終點，他扣好筆蓋，風扇持續細細吹送，那單色時間線在淡淡舊筆跡之間格外顯眼。