"Mouchos, curuxas, sapos e bruxas. Demoños, trasnos, meigas e feitizos... (Owls, barn owls, toads and witches. Demons, goblins, witches and spells...)
Far below, a dog barks once — sharp, surprised — then silence. The tide draws itself inward, breathing out a hush of shells and pebbles. The cloak about her shoulders flutters as a gust passes, carrying with it a scrap of paper at the tower’s foot: a weathered postcard, edges softened, ink partly washed away. She picks it up; the handwriting is a lover’s loop, a promise written decades before and never quite fulfilled. the galician night watching top
“The Galician night watching top” is unusual wording, but if you meant something like: "Mouchos, curuxas, sapos e bruxas
On the headland, an old stone tower stands sentinel — mortar softened by lichen, windows like watchful eyes. From its parapet, the world tilts into long shadows and silvered traces: the crooked coastline, the patchwork of fields gone quiet, and the small constellations of houses that huddle as if for warmth. Below, tide-carved rocks appear like the ribs of some ancient creature, half-buried in foam. Demons, goblins, witches and spells