The Wind Chime That Did Not Want to Ring

The Chime Beside the Veranda

Once upon a time, on a gentle hillside stood a house with a red-tiled roof, blue-painted windows, and a bougainvillea trellis that was always swaying in the breeze. In that house lived a little girl named Na with her grandmother. Na loved sitting beside the veranda and listening to the sounds of the morning: sparrows calling to one another on the roof, the sound of her grandmother’s bamboo broom sweeping the yard, water trickling in an earthen jar, and wind passing through the branches of the trees.

On the veranda roof, right beside Na’s bedroom window, hung a wind chime made of small bamboo tubes. The chime had been there for a very long time. Her grandmother told her that Na’s grandfather had made it with his own hands and hung it on the veranda on the day Na was born. Whenever the wind blew through, the bamboo tubes touched one another, producing a clear sound like laughter.

But lately, the wind chime no longer rang.

The bamboo tubes were still intact. The cord was still sturdy. The wooden ring at the top was not cracked at all. Only the small wooden piece hanging in the middle had become caught on a bougainvillea branch, preventing it from swinging freely. So, no matter how strongly the wind blew, the bamboo tubes would only tilt slightly to one side and then remain still.

Na often looked up at the chime and sighed.

“Perhaps the chime is broken,” she said.

The chime heard her and felt very sad. It could not speak in words, but a very soft sigh echoed inside it. It missed the days when the whole veranda rang with cheerful sounds. Na used to run outside and count every single chime. Her grandmother would often smile and say that the sound made the house feel warmer.

Now, the chime felt only its own silence. It began to think that it was no longer useful.

Every Object Has a Worry

One afternoon, after the rain, Na placed a wooden chair beneath the veranda and sat down to wipe the drops of water from the tabletop. Beside her were an earthen pot holding a rosemary plant, an old lantern, and a pair of her grandmother’s wooden clogs. The wind chime looked down and suddenly realized that everything around it seemed capable of doing something.

The broom helped Grandma sweep the yard. The teapot helped keep the tea hot. The rosemary gave off a fragrant smell whenever Na touched it. Even the old lantern, though its color had faded, could still light up evenings when the power went out.

But what about it? It only hung silently beneath the veranda roof.

That night, after everyone had gone to sleep, a gentle breeze passed through the house. The wind touched the bougainvillea trellis, shook the leaves that were still wet, and then flew over to the chime.

“Why don’t you ring?” the wind asked.

The chime trembled slightly but made no sound.

“I don’t know,” it replied inside. “Perhaps I have forgotten how to do my job.”

“Are you sure it is your fault?” the wind continued.

The chime fell silent. It had never thought about that. It only knew that it could not ring; it had never tried to find out why.

The next morning, Na sat beneath the veranda again. She looked at the chime for a long time, then used a small stick to prod the bougainvillea branch caught on the wooden piece in the middle of the chime. But the branch was wound around it quite tightly, and Na was afraid of breaking it, so she did not dare pull hard.

“When Grandma comes home this afternoon, I’ll ask her to help,” she said to the chime.

The chime heard her, but it was still not entirely happy. It wondered whether, if it were freed, it would be able to ring as it had before. Or had its sound disappeared along with the old days?

Na’s Journey

That afternoon, Grandma returned from the market when the sun was nearly setting. Na ran out to help carry the basket and told her about the chime being caught on the branch.

Grandma put the basket down on the doorstep, looked up at the veranda roof, and smiled.

“The chime isn’t broken. It just needs some help.”

She brought out a small bamboo ladder, but before climbing up, she said to Na:

“Would you like to find a way to free it yourself? I’ll stand beside you.”

Na nodded. She brought a strip of soft cloth, a small pair of scissors, and a wooden clothespin. Grandma reminded her not to yank the bougainvillea branch, because the branch could be damaged. Na observed it carefully, then used the strip of cloth to gently tie the branch to one side. After that, she patiently untangled each small loop of cord wrapped around the wooden piece.

The task was not easy. At times, the cord caught on a thorn, and Na had to stop. At other times, the wind made the ladder tremble slightly, so Grandma had to hold it firmly from below. Na did not become irritated or hurry. She worked little by little, just as Grandma often reminded her when teaching her to arrange dry leaves in a basket.

At last, the wooden piece in the middle was free.

The wind chime swung in the afternoon breeze. One bamboo tube touched the one beside it, making a very soft sound.

Ting-a-ling.

Na’s eyes widened. Grandma smiled. The chime, too, seemed to be smiling, though no one knew what a smiling wind chime looked like.

But then the wind stopped blowing. The sound disappeared as well.

Na sat down on the doorstep, a little disappointed.

“It only rang once.”

Grandma stroked her head.

“One sound is a beginning, too. Beautiful sounds do not usually appear all at once. They need time to find their rhythm again.”

The Sound Returns

In the days that followed, Na cared for the wind chime as she would care for a friend. Every morning, she checked whether any dry leaves had become caught in the bamboo tubes. When it rained, she looked to see whether the cord had become too damp. She also trimmed some of the bougainvillea branches growing too close to the chime, while leaving enough leaves and flowers for the trellis to remain green and healthy.

Some days, the wind was only strong enough to make the chime tremble once. On other days, it produced two or three scattered sounds. Na was not sad. She listened very attentively, as though she were listening to a friend learning to speak again after a long period of silence.

One morning, the sky was clear and blue after many rainy days. The wind blew down from the hill, passed through the rows of trees, skimmed over the tiled roof, and swept onto the veranda. The bamboo tubes began to touch one another.

Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling.

The sound was sometimes near and sometimes far away. At times, it was as gentle as a drop of water falling onto the surface of a lake; at other times, it was as lively as the footsteps of a flock of little birds. Na ran out of the house. Grandma also set down the teapot and stood by the window to listen.

The chime no longer thought it was useless. It understood that its sound had never disappeared. It had only been held back by a branch and by the sadness in its own heart. If Na had not observed carefully, if Grandma had not been patient, if the wind had not stopped by, the chime might have continued believing that it was broken.

From that day on, whenever someone in the house was going through something unhappy, Na would take that person to sit beneath the veranda. She did not rush to offer advice. She simply listened to the wind chime with them. Sometimes, that sound helped the person who was sad remember that all good things can return, as long as we are willing to look carefully, know when to ask for help, and not give up too soon.

The Lesson Beneath the Veranda

Some time later, Na made another small wind chime from seashells she had collected beside the stream. The new chime did not sound like the bamboo chime. Its sound was clear and delicate, like water whispering. Na hung it in the other corner of the veranda, where there was more sunlight.

The two chimes never competed to see which one was better. Each had its own voice. When the wind blew, they blended together into the simple music of the house on the hillside.

Na gradually understood that an object did not need to be capable of doing everything in order to have value. People were the same. Sometimes we are strong, and sometimes we need other people to help us. Sometimes the gift we bring is very striking, and sometimes it is only a small sound in a quiet afternoon. But if it brings joy, comfort, or a little hope to someone, then it has meaning.

The wind chime also understood one more thing: silence is not always failure. Sometimes, silence helps us realize where we are stuck. Sometimes, it teaches us to patiently wait for a kind hand and the right breeze.

From then on, every morning, when the chime rang beneath the veranda, Na would smile. She no longer counted how many ting-a-lings there were. She simply sat and listened, feeling lighthearted, and thought that everyone in this world had a sound of their own. That sound might not ring out today, but that did not mean it would disappear forever.