The last thing you expect to hear at five am on the beach is singing. Maybe three hours earlier, when clubbers were still stumbling down the boardwalk, high on the intoxication of alcohol and a summer getaway. Maybe three hours later, when the families with young, early-riser children start to make their descent onto the beach, flooding the air with the scent of sunscreen and the sound of childish laughter. But not at five. Five is the transition point--the point where it stops being late, and starts being early. At five, some people are waking up, but no one is on the move—or even singing at all, for that matter.
And yet, I’m standing here in the moonlight, surrounded by the voice trickling down from God knows where.
I look across the boardwalk, but all the expensive villas, tourist shops…even the convenience store is dark. There isn’t a soul awake, a single window brightened. Except…
There is one single, giant lightbulb illuminated. It sweeps across the ocean, disappearing into the distance before rounding back again. In all the years I’ve been here, out of all the nights spent partying around bonfires on the beach, never have I seen the lighthouse functional.
Then again, never have I ever been out here at five am.
As I approach the towering monument, I start to see a figure standing in the window. A portion of the glass is propped open, allowing her song to drift down to the sand below. The song is unfamiliar, and the voice is the most stunning I’ve ever heard, but that’s not what sends me gaping at the building.
No, what catches me off guard is the long, billowing stream of human hair, flowing out the window and waving at me in the wind.
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