Listen

At the end of the night, the moonlight is like a white lotus, gradually opening in the dark night sky.

　　I was in front of my desk, writing furiously, worrying about my academic performance which had not improved for a long time, and my mood was so depressed that water could drip out. The dark desk lamp shines on the pages, and the only sound left in my ears is the rustle of the pen tip rubbing against the paper.

　　The darkness of the night, like a soft veil, layers of moonlight will halo. A joyful scream came through the screen and into my ears. I could hear that it was the neighbor's children. They should be chasing each other, so happy that they can only hear the wind whistling in their ears.

　　The night was hazy, and the sound of insects filled the summer sky, interspersed with the low chatter of the adults. The sound of a bushel fan slapping on the legs, in the quiet night, echoes. The sound of children's laughter, penetrating into the night, also seeped into my heart, like a small invisible hand, scratching my heart, itchy, numb.

　　I lowered my head, looked at the notebook full of handwriting in front of me, and frowned. For the sake of my grades, I had to hoof it and run towards the established high score. But how long have I lost this simple joy? How many times have I stopped for these sounds to listen to them?

　　The only happiness in my mind is the sounds in my memory. Those sounds, filled with the smell of tobacco and sweat from the workers.

　　In the small restaurant where my mother worked the night shift, the workers were waiting patiently in front of the window where white rice was served. They were unpretentious, casually chatting about the day's pleasant and troublesome events, and every now and then someone flirted a few words, causing a burst of laughter.

　　I lay on the bar and listened to the mingled sounds as I fell asleep. In a haze, I was put in the arms of someone - it was my mother. Leaning against my mother's chest, I heard the loud clamor of the workers, the quiet whisper of the old television set, and the strong, powerful heartbeat of my mother, urging me to dream.

　　When I was awake, I would help my mother clean up. It was a quiet night, with only the sound of small insects squeaking and chirping, and the lazy footsteps of workers returning from the night shift to catch up on sleep, wearing slippers.

　　I took the mop and carefully wiped away the messy black footprints. In the quiet of the night, only the water stains on the floor shone with the light of stars. At one point, I had the whim to drag a young worker walking lazily by me and ask, "When the floor is mopped, will it look like the crystal floor Cinderella danced on?" The brown man with bare shoulders during the day, but now gently squatted down, looking at me levelly, said gently: "Yes." My whimsy was affirmed, and at that moment, I was so happy. To this day, I am still grateful for his listening and tolerance.

　　Nights like that are intoxicatingly quiet and beautiful.

　　The sound of an excited and happy chase came into my ears through the screen again. The first thing that I did was to get the sound of the children's shouting, and I couldn't help but feel lighter.

　　I think, listening, is a realm, a realm that fascinates me intoxicated, a realm that brings me peace and happiness, a realm that gradually away from me but never left ......