It was a dream. 

Outside the window, the birds' chirping rose and fell, and the wind rustled through the leaves. The girl stood up and closed the window. She walked to the desk, pulling out a chair, and took out paper and a pen to start drawing. Carefully, she made each stroke, her left hand tapping on the table. The person in her mind appeared faintly, sometimes near, sometimes far, the face unclear. As if in frustration, she scribbled a few random lines on the paper and slammed the pen down heavily. That person, the one from her dream—what did the person looks like? She let out a long sigh. She could never see the person clearly, nor could she draw.

Suddenly, the wind chime at the door rang, as if someone had just passed by. The girl seemed to sense something, and she sat up hurriedly. The chair screeched against the floor, but her mind had already followed the sound of the chime far away, paying no attention to the noise. She hurried to the door, but saw nothing. She began to run, faster and faster, her breathing growing more rapid. The figure of that person appeared clearly for a moment, then blurred, always showing only the back. 

Her breathing became ragged, her footsteps more urgent. She arrived at the entrance of another door. After taking a deep breath, she slowly pushed it open, and the wind chime rang again. The last chime signaled that person's arrival, but this time, it marked their disappearance. The girl opened the door, but there was nothing to see. Her breathing calmed down—too calm. She crouched down, hugging herself tightly, and the sound of her sobbing filled the entire room.

The sound of sobbing stopped in a sudden. The girl suddenly woke up and found herself still at the desk, with her drawing in front of her. So it had all been just a dream. She let out a heavy sigh. Picking up the pen again, she started to draw. The figure from the dream seemed a little clearer. 

In that instant, the wind chime rang again. 

It was a dream. But how do you know that you've truly woken up from it now?

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As you can see, I changed my memory...

Li Qingzhao was one of China’s most renowned female poets. Both she and her husband, Zhao Mingcheng, shared a love for literature and art, building a cherished life together. However, due to the invasion of the Jin army, their peaceful life was destroyed. The couple was forced to flee south. In the chaos of war, they lost their precious collection of books and art—a loss that profoundly affected her. Soon after, her husband died, leaving her alone and destitute.

The poem: 

Lonely and lonesome, bleak and bitter,
Deep in dreary thoughts I missed you miserably so.
In a season when warmth could suddenly a chill become,
Unable to rest was a weary soul.
How could light wine of two or three pours
Fend off a rush of wind in the late hours?
As wild geese flew by, in sorrow I dwelled,
And remembered how I had seen them before.

On grounds in piles were petals of yellow.
Wilting in grief, who'd these flowers pick?
By the window I pined,
In solitude how could I while away the day till darkness arrived?
Drizzle through phoenix trees fell,
At twilight, drops and drips dribbled and rolled.
In fall, how could sorrow possibly spell a melancholy overflow!

--translation from: link 

War caused her to lose her family and her home. Sadness lingered around her throughout her later life. One autumn night, raindrops tapped outside her window. She took a sip of mild wine, and countless sorrows filled her heart. The wine became a symbol for her grief, as the happiness she once knew was gone. Now, only she remained, facing this silent time alone...