There is a valley with meadows made of bones. It’s a valley full of the dead, and he’s not sure how to respond to such a sight. Coming to such a place feels like he’s being asked a trick question; the kind that can only have one correct answer.
He goes down the valley, hearing the bones crunch like dry leaves beneath his feet. He hesitates for a split second, before blowing his trumpet.
Holding a single note for as long as he can, he sees the bones moving. They seem to find one another among all the chaos, scrambling to become whole again. They grow together with the sound of his trumpet; sprout tendons, muscles, and flesh and skin. It looks painful and hideous, but when he runs out of breath, they lie before him like a pile of mannequins.
He lifts his trumpet to the wind this time, and allows his breath to mingle with the incoming breath of air. And when the mannequins rise from their graves, he finally understands that this is how soldiers are made.