Chimes.

Innocence looked up in awe as she twirled her dainty fingers around the delicate strings of a bronze wind chime. She loved the tingly sound of the wind blowing through the thin woven metal strips wrought in detailed patterns. The sound reminded her of her mother's laugh-so simple and pure.

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Mama was away on a vacation, they told me. They said she needed to be away from me. I never understood why. Who would comb my hair then? They said aaji would do it, but only mama knew how to tie my blue ribbon in a perfect bow.

"Your mama is sick, Laila", they'd keep saying.

I always knew mama was a little easily upset, but aren't most adults? She used to change her voice sometimes, and sometimes, I never knew who she was. She forgot me too, but I still loved her. Maybe mama also forgot things, just like I forgot my ABC in kindergarten. They still kept saying she was ill.
Late at nights she used to say she were going to bed, but I saw her shadows in the kitchen light, looking for something frantically or just crying in sheer sorrow. I never knew why she was so sad.
When I would go up to her, she would beat me up and tell me I was a bad child,  but I still got her flowers hoping she would love me the next day.

That's when they took her away.
She cried and screamed. She broke all my dolls and toys. Her eyes were so angry and red, that daddy and the doctor had to tie her down to a bed with tight ropes. I saw her face as it convulsed in grim torture. "I love you, mama", I whispered softly, hoping she would remember me before they took her away.

I never cried, because I never knew. Only a gloomy darkness of grey towered me, and often I'd wake up feeling a pair of eyes on me. But soon they died too, just like a part of me-when mama was buried. 

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Now, the beautiful butterflies still hang on the wind chime, rusted and fading. As each part of them falls, her mother's grip fades.
Her eyes moisten.
Her heart fills.
But, she smiles.