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 presence commanded attention. He wasn’t here for entertainment; he was part of this unfolding drama, an unseen hand guiding the game of influence and reputation.

Somewhere amidst the gathering, there was a bag. My bag. I clutched it tightly, knowing that within it lay something important, though I couldn’t quite remember what. The women wanted it—the Mean Girls, circling like vultures, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

The pool glistened nearby, its surface still and deceptive. I hated it, feared it. Water had always unsettled me. And yet, the truck was coming—fast and reckless. Time stretched. Would it crash into the pool? Would I?

Then the police.

Seeking justice.

I ran. Through the hotel, up the winding stairs that never seemed to end. The market appeared suddenly, a chaotic maze of colors, voices, and desperation. The weight of everything pressed down on me. The truth I sought, the justice I demanded—it all led me to this moment.

The Mean Girls fought to keep what was mine, their words sharp, their laughter cutting. “You don’t even know who we are.”

I swallowed my rage, my throat tight with unshed tears. I wanted to scream, to strike, to unleash the storm inside me. But I held myself back. Not here. Not in front of them.

Then the stairs were gone. Instead, a long, endless ladder stretched toward the sky. I climbed. Each rung a prayer, each step a plea for justice. My voice rose, raw and desperate.

Al-Fatihah.

The words left my lips, a cry to the heavens. The sky trembled. The lighthouse flickered. The people watching me—their faces once filled with mockery—turned to awe. They could see it now. They could feel it. The storm wasn’t just mine anymore.

Thunder cracked, splitting the sky apart. The sea roared back, waves rising like towering beasts ready to consume the shore. The more I prayed, the louder the storm grew. A divine reckoning.

And then—silence.

I woke up. The taste of salt is still on my lips. The echoes of the storm are still in my chest. The lighthouse stood, watching, waiting.

The world had not changed. But I had.