We were on the island. It was night. All we heard were waves crashing on the sandy beach and the crush crush crush sound as we walked towards a jetty. From the small clouds above us, the shadows hung down onto the jetty's planks. As they hug the planks and peeped through the gaps, the sea whispered to them  tales of the dark creatures below. There was nothing on the pier except a wooden bench.  Nothing but a wooden bench, engineered by a clumsy carpenter. Other than that, darkness greeted our gazes.

There we sat with the breeze caressing our cheeks.
"Look at the stars," he said.
We looked up, silently capturing the sight.
Millions of them. Twinkled and shined.

"All those were created by God," his mum replied.
 And the souls praised and the praises were soothing.



That moment would not had happened if the pier was as bright as day -- well-lit on all sides, and it had a solid built roof  and the whispers of our hearts were erased by the blaring music from the blasting stereos from resorts.

“When it is darkest, men see the stars.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson