She hung the wind chimes in the garden just a week after they moved in. They were young and in love and ready to face whatever the world threw at them. They would lie in bed at night and listen to each other's breathing, listen to the tinkling of the wind chimes outside.
They hung there for years. Every summer evening, after the children were safely tucked into bed, they would sit quietly in the garden, sometimes reading, sometimes talking, sometimes just enjoying the night air. In the winter, they would curl up in front of the fire, with music or the hum of the television filling the room, masking the rattling of the wind chimes outside.
The new owners blazed through the house, ripping out walls and doors and windows as they went. They wanted something new, something fresh. Something to call their own. They didn't turn their attention to the overgrown jungle of a garden for months, almost a year. The young woman found the wind chimes hanging from the corner of a shed, old and broken and discoloured. She never guessed that they had once been every colour of the rainbow. She unhooked them and threw them into the rubbish pile, ready to cart out to the skip.
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