Last night in my dream, she told me another story.
She said she hid a tower, thirteen stories high and six corners. There is a wind chime on the top of the tower. It jingles when there is no wind, but does not move at all when the wind blows. She shouted from under the tower: "When the wind blows, you can sing." But the tower seemed dead.
She said the man she fell in love with was like the mystery of the tower. If no one sees it, it's like there's no collection. If you fall in love but don't say it, it's like you've never loved before. He appeared in early winter like a storm, as golden as a ginkgo leaf. Her tower tinkled for the first time in the wind. I asked her, what happened next? Then the wind stopped, she said. From then on, no matter whether there is wind or not, the wind chimes will never ring again. She looked melancholy, lost in deep memories. The memories became larger and larger, and she became smaller and smaller, until finally she became a handful of withered osmanthus flowers.