After finishing the song, Zhou Haoran bowed and left the stage.
Applause still echoed behind him as he walked without pause through the long corridor and entered his private lounge.
The door closed, and his world fell silent.
He took off his performance outfit, handed it to his assistant, and accepted a thermos cup, taking a sip.
He drank warm water infused with boat-fruited sterculia seeds and Sichuan fritillary bulb—a habit he had maintained for over thirty years.
“Mr. Zhou, you performed wonderfully tonight,” Assistant Xiao Sun said with a smile.
Zhou Haoran didn’t respond, instead studying his face in the mirror.
He was in his sixties but well-maintained, with jet-black dyed hair, firm skin, and only a few fine lines at the corners of his eyes, making him look just over fifty. For over thirty years, he had remained a top star in the industry, appearing at every Jiangcheng annual gala, selling out every concert, and producing hit after hit. The song “The Person in the Dream” was his most iconic and famous work.
His manager, Sister Zhang, pushed the door open, her face pale.
Zhou Haoran saw her expression in the mirror and frowned. “What’s wrong?”
Sister Zhang didn’t speak, simply handing her phone to him.
On the screen was a Weibo post.
Lin Wanwan V: “This song was created by my grandmother. @Zhou Haoran”
Accompanying the post was a yellowed contract signed with the name “Jiang Min.”
Zhou Haoran looked at it for three seconds, then pushed the phone away and continued adjusting his hair in the mirror.
“Her grandmother? Who is her grandmother?”
Sister Zhang’s voice tightened. “Mr. Zhou, this is no joke. The contract clearly states the transferor is Jiang Min. If she really is Jiang Min’s granddaughter…”
She paused before continuing, “I’ve already reached out to Lin Wanwan using our studio’s account, but she hasn’t responded yet.”
“Just communicate! And what about the contract?” Zhou Haoran interrupted her. “It was signed thirty years ago, legally and properly. The transfer fee was three thousand yuan, paid in full at the time. What’s the problem?”
“But the authorship…”
“The copyright belongs to the publisher. It’s written in black and white.” He stood up and picked up his jacket. “Have the legal department send a lawyer’s letter. Sue her for defamation.”
Sister Zhang stood motionless.
Zhou Haoran looked at her. “Is there something else?”
“Mr. Zhou,” Sister Zhang’s voice dropped to a whisper, “that song… did you really create it?”
The lounge fell silent for three seconds.
Zhou Haoran turned to face her, his gaze calm—so calm it was almost frightening.
“How long have you been with me?”
“Fifteen years.”
“After fifteen years, you still ask me that?”
Sister Zhang lowered her head, not daring to speak further.
Zhou Haoran pushed the door open and walked out.
Before the lawyer’s letter could be sent, the trending topics exploded.
#Lin Wanwan Claims “The Person in the Dream” Was Created by Her Grandmother# (Explosive)
#Who Is Jiang Min?# (Explosive)
#Zhou Haoran Remains Silent!# (Hot)
By now, the comments section was completely divided.
Zhou Haoran’s fans were furious:
“Trying to stir up trouble at the Jiangcheng Annual Gala?!”
“Now you come out saying a thirty-year-old song was written by your grandmother?”
“Lin Wanwan! You must be desperate for fame!”
“So what if there’s a contract? Once it’s signed, it belongs to the other party!”
“Lin Wanwan, get out of the entertainment industry!”
But the voices of neutral observers began to emerge:
“The contract is real, and the name is Jiang Min, not Zhou Haoran.”
“So who really wrote this song?”
“Thief Zhou Haoran! He’s never shown the original manuscript, has he?”
“For over thirty years, he’s always claimed it as his own, and now this contract suddenly appears…”
Others were still asking:
“Who is Jiang Min? Does anyone know her?”
“Can’t find any information. Seems like she’s not from the industry.”
“An ordinary person? How did an ordinary person’s song end up in Zhou Haoran’s hands?”
Lin Wanwan went to the meeting place mentioned in the message from the unknown number but didn’t see anyone. She only received some documents.
She had just returned from outside and now posted another Weibo update.
“I have the manuscript, the contract, and the recording. Livestream at dawn.”
Three accompanying images:
The first, a yellowed sheet of manuscript paper with handwritten musical notation and lyrics in elegant handwriting. The corners of the paper were slightly curled, but it was well-preserved.
The second, that transfer contract. Next to Jiang Min’s signature was a handwritten supplementary clause: “If this song generates subsequent income, Party A is entitled to a share of the profits. The specific proportion will be negotiated separately.”
The third, an old-fashioned tape recorder with a cassette tape beside it. On the tape’s label were handwritten words: “August 1995, for my dear grandson.”
As soon as this Weibo post went up, reposts instantly exceeded a million.
The tone in the comments section began to shift:
“There really is a manuscript?!”
“Does Zhou Haoran have one? Let’s compare?”
“Waiting for dawn!”
“If Lin Wanwan is lying, she can forget about staying in this industry.”
“She wouldn’t dare to be this bold unless she had solid evidence.”
“What does that supplementary clause mean? Profit sharing from subsequent income?”
“So her grandmother didn’t get a single cent?”
However, Zhou Haoran’s studio soon issued a statement: “Regarding Lin Wanwan’s malicious defamation, our company has engaged lawyers to collect evidence and will pursue legal action in accordance with the law. The copyright ownership of the song ‘The Person in the Dream’ is clear, and the attribution is lawful and compliant. We urge the public not to believe rumors.”
In the comments section, fans celebrated:
“Support legal action!”
“Sue her into the ground!”
“The cost of spreading rumors is too low!”
“Lin Wanwan, get ready for a lawyer’s letter!”
But soon, some noticed issues:
“Copyright ownership is clear? Then show us the original manuscript.”
“Lawful and compliant? What about that ‘subsequent income to be negotiated separately’ in the supplementary clause?”
“Not a single cent of profit sharing for over thirty years—is that lawful and compliant?”
“She has the manuscript, the contract, and the recording. What do you have?”
“Anyone can send a lawyer’s letter. Where’s the evidence?”
Lin Wanwan sat by the bed, scrolling through trending topics on her phone.
Xu Jia sat beside her, browsing comments, her frown deepening.
“Zhou Haoran’s fans are starting to control the narrative, saying you’re just trying to stir up trouble.”
Lin Wanwan remained silent.
Lin Weiguo sat across from them, clutching the contract, his knuckles white.
He looked up at Lin Wanwan. “I couldn’t help your grandmother with her affairs.”
“But as for this song…”
He paused, his eyes reddening. “You have to let those people know that your grandmother wasn’t just anyone.”
Lin Wanwan looked at him and nodded.
“Before dawn breaks, I’ll make sure they all hear it.”
Before dawn, Lin Wanwan started her livestream.
The title was just four words: “Before Dawn Breaks.”
The livestream room instantly flooded with ten million viewers.
Comments flooded the screen:
“Here we go!”
“Where’s the manuscript?”
“Where’s the contract?”
“Where’s the recording?”
“Waiting for the solid evidence!”
Lin Wanwan sat in front of the camera, bare-faced, her hair slightly messy, but her eyes bright.
Beside her sat Lin Weiguo, his eyes red, silent.
Lin Wanwan spoke, her voice calm. “Dawn is still a while away.”
“First, let me show you all something.”
She took out that stack of yellowed manuscript paper from beside her.
The camera zoomed in.
Each page of the manuscript was captured clearly, showing: simplified musical notation, lyrics, and traces of revisions. Some parts were crossed out and rewritten, while others were annotated with notes like “higher here” or “slower here.”
In the bottom right corner of each page was a date.
March 12, 1995
April 7, 1995
May 21, 1995
…
August 3, 1995
The last page was dated August 3, 1995, with a small line of text written beside it:
“Written for my unborn good grandchild. May all the people you dream of be those who love you.”
The handwriting on the manuscript was delicate and graceful, each stroke written with care.
Lin Wanwan said, “This is my grandmother’s handwriting.”
“Her name is Jiang Min. She wrote this song in 1995.”
“At that time, my mother had just become pregnant with me.”
She flipped to one of the pages and aimed the camera at that small line of text: “When she wrote this song, I was still in my mother’s womb.”
“But she was already writing it for me.”
The livestream fell silent for a few seconds.
Comments began to flood in:
“I’m crying…”
“This was written for a child…”
“Her grandmother was writing a song for her…”
“Does Zhou Haoran have anything like this?”
“Would he dare to show it?”
At that moment, Lin Wanwan took out the contract.
The camera zoomed in on the handwritten supplementary clause.
Pointing at the line, she read it word by word: “If this song generates subsequent income, Party A is entitled to a share of the profits, with the specific proportion to be negotiated separately.”
She looked up at the camera and said, “This was written by my grandmother.”
“At the time, when she signed this contract, she specifically added this clause.”
“She didn’t understand the law. She only knew that if this song could make money in the future, she should get a share.”
“She thought that by adding this clause, she could protect herself.”
She paused. “But more than thirty years have passed.”
“She hasn’t received a single cent in profit sharing.”
Lin Weiguo’s shoulders trembled. He lowered his head, tears falling to the ground.
The comments went wild:
“Not a single cent in profit sharing?!”
“This song must have earned hundreds of millions, right?!”
“Not a single cent in over thirty years?!”
“Isn’t this just bullying?!”
“The supplementary clause was written—did they just ignore it?!”
“Where’s Zhou Haoran? Come out and say something!”
Lin Wanwan took out the old tape recorder.
The recorder was very old, its casing yellowed, the tape compartment lid slightly loose and held together with transparent tape, but it still worked.
She pressed the play button.
After a crackling static noise from the recorder, a woman’s voice came through—gentle, clear, with a slight local accent.
She sang the song a cappella, without accompaniment or embellishment, just the melody and lyrics.
“Person in my dreams, where are you…”
“Person in my dreams, have you thought of me…”
“Person in my dreams, don’t forget…”
“Person in my dreams, wait for me…”
After singing a few lines, she stopped.
A soft laugh came from the recorder.
Then the woman’s voice said:
“Good grandchild, this is the song Grandma wrote for you.”
“When you grow up, Grandma will sing it to you.”
“You must remember, Grandma loves you.”
After the recording ended, the livestream fell completely silent.
Two million people were online, and not a single comment appeared.
After a long while, someone posted:
“That was her grandmother.”
“Her grandmother called her ‘good grandchild’ in the recording.”
Comments began to appear one by one:
“I’m crying…”
“This voice is so beautiful…”
“A recording from over thirty years ago, she’s singing to her child…”
“What about Zhou Haoran? Does he dare listen?”
“How could he have the face to listen?”
Real-time trending topics flooded the screen:
#That’s Lin Wanwan’s grandmother!# (explosive)
#Lin Wanwan plays the recording!# (explosive)
#Jiang Min’s voice!# (explosive)
#Dear grandson, this is the song Grandma wrote for you!# (explosive)
The topic’s read count surpassed fifteen billion in half an hour, and the comment section was even more explosive:
“I’m crying listening to this…”
“Her grandmother’s voice is so beautiful…”
“A recording from over thirty years ago, she’s singing to her future grandson…”
“What about Zhou Haoran? Does he dare listen?”
“How could he have the face to listen?”
Under Zhou Haoran’s studio’s Weibo post, the comments had completely shifted:
“Do you have the manuscript?”
“Do you have the recording?”
“Do you have the phrase ‘subsequent profits to be negotiated separately’?”
“Not a single cent in profit sharing for over thirty years, and you still want to sue them?”
“You’re the thieves!”
“Zhou Haoran, come out and speak!”
Zhou Haoran sat on the sofa, staring at his phone, his face ashen.
He had listened to that recording. He recognized that woman’s voice.
Over thirty years ago, when the publishing house gave him the song, it came with a letter.
The letter said: “The creator of this song hopes you can sing it well.”
He hadn’t paid attention at the time, and later, he didn’t know where he’d thrown that letter.
Now he knew—the song’s creator was Jiang Min.
In the recording, she even called her child “dear grandson.”
His agent, Sister Zhang, whispered beside him, “Teacher Zhou, public opinion isn’t looking good…”
Zhou Haoran raised his head, his eyes dark and fierce. “Has the lawyer’s letter been sent?”
“Yes.”
“Then wait.”
“Wait for what?”
He sneered, “Wait for that woman’s evidence to backfire on her.”
Sister Zhang was taken aback. “What do you mean?”
Zhou Haoran didn’t answer. He stood up, walked to the window, and looked out at the gray, overcast scenery.
Lin Wanwan’s livestream was still ongoing.
She faced the camera and said, “I know some people will say…”
“Can this evidence prove that the song was created by my grandmother?”
She smiled, then said, “Yes.”
She took out an envelope from beside her.
The envelope was old, yellowed, with a postmark dated March 1996.
She pulled out the letter inside and unfolded it.
The camera zoomed in, revealing the handwritten contents of the letter, the handwriting identical to that on the manuscript.
The heading read:
“To the Esteemed Leadership of Starlight Audio-Visual Publishing House…”
Lin Wanwan began to read:
“I am Jiang Min, the creator of ‘The Person in the Dream.’ This song was written in 1995 for my unborn grandson.”
“I signed a transfer contract with your company and received a transfer fee of three thousand yuan. For this, I am grateful.”
“However, the clause in the contract stating ‘the transferor has the right to determine the method of attribution’ was something I did not notice when signing. Upon careful reading later, I realized this clause meant your company could attribute the song’s lyrics and composition to someone else.”
“I am writing this letter to request that, when publishing this song, your company attribute it under my name.”
“If it cannot be attributed under my name, I ask that your company, in accordance with the supplementary clause, share the subsequent profits with me.”
“This is the first song I’ve ever written, and it may be the only one in my lifetime.”
“I hope that when my child grows up and hears this song on the radio, they will know it was created by their grandmother.”
The letter was signed: Jiang Min.
Date: March 28, 1996.
After reading the letter aloud, Lin Wanwan looked up at the camera. Her eyes were red, but she did not cry.
She said, “My grandmother mailed this letter.”
“But she never received a reply.”
“More than thirty years have passed, and this song has been sung countless times.”
“Yet no one knew she was the one who created it.”
The live stream fell silent once more.
Comments began flooding the screen:
“She sent a letter!”
“She requested credit!”
“They ignored her!”
“Over thirty years!”
“Zhou Haoran! Can’t you see this?!”
Dawn broke, and Lin Wanwan’s live stream continued.
She spoke to the camera: “I know Zhou Haoran’s fans are still attacking me.”
“Saying I’m trying to ride on his fame, that I’m spreading rumors, that I’m desperate for attention.”
She paused, then smiled—a bitter smile—and continued, “Yes, I want attention.”
“I want enough attention for everyone to know…”
“That song was created by my grandmother.”
As soon as she finished speaking, her phone vibrated.
Xu Jia, sitting beside her, glanced at it and froze.
She handed the phone to Lin Wanwan. “Look.”
Lin Wanwan looked down at the message:
@Jiangcheng Music Copyright Association had reposted her Weibo post.
The caption read: “We are following this matter. Please provide complete evidence, and the association will protect legal rights in accordance with the law. Any infringement will be subject to legal consequences.”
The live stream exploded, with comments instantly flooding the screen:
“The Copyright Association has stepped in!”
“Zhou Haoran is finished!”
“This isn’t riding on fame—it’s fighting for rights!”
“Official recognition!”
“Her grandmother’s credit is coming back!”
Zhou Haoran stared at his phone, his hands trembling.
Ms. Zhang stood beside him, her face pale. “Mr. Zhou, the Copyright Association…”
Zhou Haoran suddenly stood up and hurled his phone.
It smashed against the wall, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of cracks.
The lounge fell deathly silent. Assistants lowered their heads, not daring to speak.
Ms. Zhang cautiously asked, “Mr. Zhou, should we…”
Zhou Haoran turned and looked at her.
His usually gentle and refined face was now twisted with fury.
He spoke through gritted teeth, word by word: “Does she think a copyright association can take me down?”
Ms. Zhang dared not respond.
Zhou Haoran sneered, “I’ve been in this industry for thirty years. I’ve seen everything.”
“Let her make a scene.”
“The bigger, the better.”
“In the end…”
He didn’t finish, but Ms. Zhang understood.
“In the end, who lives and who dies is still uncertain.”
Lin Wanwan faced the camera one last time and said, “My grandmother waited over thirty years for credit for this song.”
“I won’t let her wait any longer.”
“Thank you to the Copyright Association.”
“Thank you to everyone who believed in me.”
She paused, then smiled. “Has the dawn arrived?”
Comments flooded the screen:
“It’s here!”
“Dawn has broken!”
“The dawn for this song has arrived!”
“Jiang Min’s credit should be restored!”
After she ended the live stream, the room fell quiet.
Lin Weiguo sat beside her, crying too hard to speak.
Lin Wanwan looked at him and gently took his hand.
Outside the window, the sun rose. Sunlight streamed in, falling on the yellowed contract and on Jiang Min’s signature.
Suddenly, her phone vibrated. Lin Wanwan looked down and saw another message from an unknown number, containing only one sentence: “They received your grandmother’s letter, but it was thrown away. The person who threw it away is named Jiang Man.”
After reading it, Lin Wanwan’s pupils contracted sharply.