Being a watchman is surely the world’s most thankless job. He stands at his post, and observes.
In the late hours of the night, he’s tempted to fold his hands and rest his eyes for a few moments, but he can’t risk falling asleep on the job. He often thinks that morning will never come, just because this night has been the darkest one he’s seen. There is no moon to look up to, no stars to kindle a twinkle in his eyes, and he’s not even allowed to carry a torch because he has to train himself to see in the dark. All he’s allowed is a trumpet, which he blows when he sees schemes and swords being formed under a cover of shadows.
The night is only as silent as he is. After all, he’s the only one who owns a trumpet, so he has to shoulder these responsibilities. It is a thankless job, but he does it anyway.
Nowadays, people often stand around his post and listen. Contrary to popular belief, he hates hearing the sound of his own trumpet. He thinks it is loud and obnoxious, and disturbs any semblance of peace that the night brings. But the crowd listens to him as if they need to listen, and for now, that is enough.
It is enough, even though they don’t know that he’s a watchman filled with warnings. They’ve labelled him a musician who plays love songs on his trumpet, and if all they’re going to do is listen, then he’ll just have to keep on playing until one of them understands.
He’ll probably be dead by then, so he supposes it’s okay for him to have this job for a little while.