The Lighthouse and the Storm
The Lighthouse and the Storm The air was thick with salt and the lingering scent of rain. I stood on the shore, watching the waves crash against the jagged rocks beneath a sky painted in deep indigos and grays. The lighthouse in the distance flickered like a lone sentinel, its beam cutting through the gathering dusk. It felt like the world was holding its breath. Behind me, the grand hotel loomed over the beach, its windows reflecting the restless sea. The people inside were ghosts—laughter and whispered conversations weaving an invisible web of power and exclusion. Women gathered in corners, their faces shifting between familiarity and foreignness. Among them were the Mean Girls—those who sneered, whispered, and watched with eyes gleaming between amusement and cruelty. A lizard skittered across the stone path. Small, insignificant—yet its presence unnerved me. Something about it felt unnatural as if it were watching, waiting. Then came him—an Egyptian TV personality, a man whose...
