A Shard of Silence

Prologue

Maya

Under the cover of twilight she watched, unseen. Her fingertips mindlessly traced the leather stitching on the steering wheel, trying to distract her body from the stiffness in her craned neck. Through the passenger side window, she enjoyed a view of the entire four-story building as its tenants began turning on the lights, one by one. Averting her gaze from a nude man walking across his living room, seemingly unbothered by the uncurtained windows adorning it, she scanned the remaining dark windows. It shouldn't be long now.

The distant sound of crashing waves and seagull calls had long become white noise, a constant companion during her watch. Silence would have been an unbearable alternative. A soft ocean breeze crept in through the cracked window, seasoning the air around her with its familiar salty scent. Over the horizon, a symphony of orange and purple lingered in the sky after a sun that had just plunged into the calmness of the water. She paid no attention to the paradise surrounding her, having long grown accustomed to ignoring the sea's overwhelming presence. While its egotistical dominance over all five senses desperately tried to divert her focus, her gaze remained on the building beside her.

An unconscious reaction, her grip tightened on the steering wheel as she spotted someone approaching from the corner of her eye. The figure walked along the limestone pavement, fully immersed in the mundaneness of routine, stopping only at the front door to the building to fish a set of keys out of a purse. Fighting a twitch at the corner of her mouth, she watched as the figure briefly struggled with the keys before entering the building. Out of habit more than necessity, she counted the seconds until the entrance fully closed, already knowing the newly installed door damper offered a generous window of opportunity. The twitch at the corner of her mouth returned as the door finally latched shut with a loud groan, the crashing waves having once again become the sole soundtrack of her watch.

Minutes later, a second-floor window lit up.

Maya smiled.

***

In the warm summer evenings, after the last beachgoers had already abandoned their prized spots on the sand, was when the town really came alive. Restaurants bustled with tourists, struggling to fit as many tables as possible along the pavement, while stuffy indoor areas remained empty. Souvenir shops stayed open later than bars, relying on the relaxed state of vacationing customers to inconspicuously overcharge for magnets and sunscreen. At that time of the year, the most coveted establishments were those along the main street, where the palm tree-lined pedestrian area merged with the beach, the two realms only separated by a low cement wall. This doubled as a sitting area for patient restaurant-goers, who often preferred to wait longer over having to eat without an ocean view — even though the shore always became a pit of darkness as soon as the sun set. Curious how the sea continued pulling them in with its presence, despite its invisibility.

Strolling along the main road, Maya also strove for invisibility. A chalkboard rested against a tree in front of an Irish pub, publicising an ongoing — and loud — karaoke night, on which she lingered for a moment, feigning consideration. Disguised as an unassuming tourist, she had ditched her usual attire for flip-flops, a pair of jean shorts and a linen button down shirt, having not forgotten to apply a generous dose of self-tanner that morning. Tourists are always tan or red, never pale. Surely enough, a group of young men sporting the inflamed, scarlet tinge from too much sunlight stood in front of the main street's last bar, beer glasses in hand and catcalls on their lips. Maya gave them a wide berth as she passed, ignoring the misguided flattery that soon turned to resentfulness, half-shouted, half-slurred in her direction. As swiftly as she strode away from them, the men's interest shifted to the TV mounted right outside the bar, tuned to their favourite paid sports channel.

At the far end of the main road, under a broken streetlight stood a tall steel gate, only a little ways away from the bustling nightlife. Meant to ward off the most athletic of unwanted visitors, the spikes at the top disagreed with the overall artistry of the gate, which had been designed to resemble a breaking wave. Behind the steel barrier, a dirt road that could comfortably fit two cars side-by-side followed, before blending in with the darkness beyond the gate. Maya kept her distance, disinclined to trigger the safety lights just yet, looking upwards instead. In the darkness above, she could barely make out the shape of the monumental cliff hunched over the sea, delineating the end of the beach. Atop the mount, alarmingly close to its edge stood a house, an abominable piece of modern architecture punctuating the very end of the gated road. The angular homestead flaunted floor-to-ceiling windows on every wall, the altitude and distance from the town its only source of privacy. Muscle memory caused her gaze to follow the path of a hidden set of stairs along the side of the cliff, leading to a secluded and otherwise inaccessible part of the beach. Unless you know what to look for.

A blinding spotlight suddenly beamed onto Maya, who'd absentmindedly stepped too close to the security light's motion sensor. With a hand shielding her eyes from the luminous assault, she turned away from the gate facing the sports bar. The light beam pointed directly at the TV, briefly obfuscating its contents, to the great dismay and indignation of the drunk men, whose accented tongues began rolling out expletives towards her. By the time the barman came outside to tend to the commotion, Maya had already scurried away to a side alleyway. She couldn't risk it. Even a hint of recognition from a single person could ruin everything she had been working towards.

***

At one in the morning, she couldn't sleep. Instead, she sat cross-legged on her bed, rifling through the pages of a small leather planner, searching. Her fingertips caressed the paper, following the trail of faded ink that covered every line with meticulous scribbles detailing dates, times, places... They showed more than just a schedule — this was a routine, a cycle, a ritual. One that she'd been tracking over the past years. The fruitful results of her watch.

The writing in the planner was dense, but solely at its core: June through August. These pages in the planner were fragile, practically crumbling from the constant back-and-forth flipping and overlapped writing. But rereading her notes was calming for Maya, a ceremony of tranquility and reassurance. Her fingertip lingered inevitably over a particular date — one that was fast approaching. The only one without any writing.