Chapter 7 horn for night camp

At ten o'clock in the evening, I read a book under the lamp, and the trumpet in the military camp not far from home blew a familiar tune.A few simple scales, slowly going up and down, it is rare to have such a simple heart in this bustling big city. I said, "It's blowing the trumpet again. Can you hear me?" My aunt said, "I didn't pay attention." I'm afraid to listen to the horn every night because I'm the only one who hears it.I said: "Ah, it's blowing again." But this time, for some reason, the sound was extremely low, with a very thin thread, which was disconnected and connected again several times.This time I didn't ask my aunt if she could hear her or not.I suspect that there is no speaker at all, just my own auditory memory.In addition to desolation, there is also fear.

But at this time, someone outside whistled loudly, and casually picked up the tune of the trumpet.I stood up suddenly, full of joy and sympathy, and ran to the window, not wanting to know who it was, whether it was the occupants of the apartment above or below, or someone passing by on the street.