石澳的山路，白天其實很漂亮，從石澳道往山上走，可以看到整片海岸線。天氣好的時候，海面是亮藍色的，彷彿天空掉進了海裡。很多人會選擇在這裡跑山，或者行山，享受大自然的美好。然而，到了夜晚，這條路卻彷彿變成了另一個世界。夜色降臨，黑暗吞噬了所有的色彩，連白天那片令人心曠神怡的海，也失去了蹤影，只剩下無盡的黑。第一次夜走石澳山，是很多年前的事了。那天晚上，我和一個朋友吃完晚飯，時間還早，他提議不如上山走一走，看看夜景。當時年輕氣盛，我毫不猶豫地答應了。於是，我們從石澳村旁邊的一條小路開始往山上走。
那條路沒有路燈，只有遠處城市的燈光若隱若現，彷彿在提醒我們文明世界的存在。剛開始時，海風很大，可以聽到陣陣海浪拍打岩石的聲音。山路其實並不難走，只是夜晚視線不佳，我們便一邊走一邊聊天，用聲音驅散夜晚的寂靜。走了大約半小時，周圍的環境變得越來越安靜，連城市的聲音也逐漸消失，只剩下風聲在耳邊呼嘯。突然，朋友停下腳步，他指著前方低聲說：「你看。」我順著他的手指望去，只見山路前方很遠的地方，有一點光亮，像是一盞小燈。我以為是另一個行山的人，也沒多想，畢竟夜行山的人不少。我們繼續向前走，那盞燈始終在前面，看起來像是在慢慢移動。朋友輕聲說：「他走得挺慢的。」我點了點頭，但隨著時間推移，我開始覺得有些不對勁。
我們加快腳步，那盞燈似乎也保持著相同的距離；我們放慢速度，那盞燈竟然也似乎跟著我們的節奏變慢。無論我們如何調整速度，那盞燈和我們之間的距離始終不變，就像被某種無形的力量固定住了一樣。朋友低聲說：「追不上。」我們停下腳步，那盞燈也停了。過了一會兒，它又開始緩緩移動。我們心裡都有些發毛，但誰也沒說什麼，只是繼續往前走。直到走到一個轉彎處，我們以為可以追上它，但當我們轉過彎時，山路前方卻什麼也沒有，那盞燈消失得無影無蹤。
整條山路黑漆漆的，只剩下冷風呼嘯而過的聲音。朋友拿出手機，用手電筒照亮前方，但什麼都沒看到。我們繼續往前走了一段路，仍然沒有任何異樣。我開始懷疑剛才是不是眼花了，但就在我們準備回頭下山的一瞬間，朋友突然拉住我說：「你看後面！」我猛地回頭，只見山路後方，那盞燈又出現了！它遠遠地懸在空中，正緩緩向我們靠近。那一刻，我感到背脊一陣發涼。因為剛才那盞燈明明是在我們前面，而現在卻出現在後方。而且，中途的山路我們一直在走，不可能有人從我們身邊經過。
我們不敢再多說什麼，只能默默地加快腳步，一心想趕快回到石澳村。那盞燈始終跟在我們後面，不遠不近，就像有人提著它緩緩跟隨。我能感覺到心跳越來越快，每一步都像踩在棉花上一樣虛浮。終於，我們看到了石澳村的燈光，心裡稍微放鬆了一些。但當我們回頭再看時，那盞燈已經消失不見了，就像從未存在過一樣。
很多年後，我和一位經常跑山的朋友聊天，他提到石澳山時，問了我一句：「你有沒有見過夜燈？」我愣了一下，心裡掠過一絲寒意。「什麼夜燈？」我故作鎮定地問。他說：「就是有人說，在晚上行石澳山的時候，有時會看到一盞燈，好像有人提著它。」我聽得心裡發毛，忍不住問：「然後呢？」他沉默了一會兒才說：「然後追不上，怎麼追都追不上。」我沒有接話，他又補充了一句：「有人說，那盞燈不是帶路，是在數人。」我皺眉問：「數什麼？」他低聲回答：「數今晚山上有幾個人。」
那天晚上，我躺在床上輾轉難眠，一直回想起那次夜行石澳山的經歷。我突然想到一件事，那盞燈從頭到尾似乎並沒有真的移動過，它既沒有接近我們，也沒有離開我們，就像是靜靜地停在某個固定的位置。而我們，只是一步步地走到了它應該出現的地方……
English Version
By day, the mountain paths above Shek O in Hong Kong are known for their breathtaking coastal views, where the sea stretches out in brilliant shades of blue and the horizon seems to merge effortlessly with the sky, creating a sense of openness and calm that draws hikers, runners, and photographers alike, yet when night falls, that same landscape transforms into something entirely different, as darkness consumes the coastline, erases familiar landmarks, and leaves behind a silent, shadow-filled world where even the sound of the ocean becomes distant and uncertain. It was many years ago when I first walked that mountain road at night, accompanied by a friend after a casual dinner, both of us driven more by curiosity than caution, deciding on impulse to climb up from the small path near Shek O Village to take in the night scenery, unaware that the experience would leave a lasting impression that neither of us could fully explain. The trail itself had no streetlights, relying only on the faint glow of distant city lights and the occasional flicker of illumination from far below, and as we began our ascent, the strong sea breeze carried with it the rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the rocks, grounding us in a sense of normalcy despite the surrounding darkness. At first, the walk felt ordinary, even enjoyable, as we talked casually to fill the silence, but as we continued upward, the environment gradually changed, the wind becoming louder, the air cooler, and the sounds of the city fading until all that remained was the persistent rush of wind and the soft crunch of our footsteps on the path. After about half an hour, my friend suddenly stopped and pointed ahead, his voice low as he drew my attention to a small point of light far along the trail, faint yet distinct, resembling a handheld lamp or flashlight carried by someone walking ahead of us. Assuming it was another hiker, we thought little of it and continued forward, expecting to eventually catch up, but as time passed, something began to feel off. No matter how much we increased our pace, the distance between us and the light remained unchanged, as though it were moving in perfect synchronization with us, and when we slowed down, the light seemed to slow as well, maintaining the same fixed gap that neither grew shorter nor longer. A quiet tension settled between us as we exchanged glances, both recognizing that the situation defied simple explanation, yet neither willing to voice the unease that was building. When we finally stopped completely, the light also came to a halt, hovering in the darkness as if waiting, and after a brief pause, it began to move again, slowly and steadily, always just beyond our reach. Determined to understand what we were seeing, we pressed forward, quickening our steps in an attempt to close the distance, and when we reached a bend in the trail, we expected to finally encounter the person carrying the light, but as we turned the corner, the path ahead was empty, the light gone without a trace, leaving only darkness and the sound of wind sweeping across the hillside. For a moment, we stood there in silence, trying to make sense of what had just happened, before continuing a short distance further, still finding nothing unusual, until we decided to turn back toward the village. It was at that exact moment, as we shifted direction, that my friend suddenly grabbed my arm and pointed behind us, and when I turned, my breath caught in my throat as I saw the same light once again, now positioned along the path we had just walked, hovering at a distance and slowly moving toward us. The realization was immediate and chilling, because we had been walking continuously, and there had been no opportunity for anyone to pass us unnoticed on that narrow trail, yet the light was now undeniably behind us, approaching with the same steady rhythm as before. Without speaking, we began to walk faster, then faster still, our earlier curiosity replaced by a growing urgency to return to the safety of the village, and throughout the descent, the light remained behind us, neither closing in nor falling away, maintaining that same unnatural distance as though it were bound to us by some invisible measure. My heart pounded as each step felt heavier than the last, the darkness pressing in from all sides, until at last we saw the familiar lights of Shek O Village below, their presence bringing a fragile sense of relief, and when we finally reached the edge of the village and turned back one last time, the light was gone, vanished completely as though it had never existed. Years later, during a conversation with another experienced night runner, the topic of Shek O came up, and he asked casually whether I had ever seen the “night light,” a question that immediately stirred the memory I had tried to set aside, and when I asked what he meant, he described the same phenomenon, a lone light appearing on the mountain path at night, always just ahead or just behind, impossible to catch no matter how hard one tries. When I pressed him further, asking what people believed it was, he hesitated before giving an answer that lingered with me long after, saying that some believe the light is not guiding anyone at all, but counting, quietly observing how many people are on the mountain that night. That idea unsettled me more than the experience itself, and as I lay awake later, replaying the memory in my mind, I realized something that had not occurred to me before, that throughout the entire encounter, the light had never truly changed its position relative to us, it had not approached or retreated in any meaningful way, but instead remained fixed, as if anchored to a specific point, while we were the ones moving through the darkness toward it and away from it, step by step, crossing some unseen boundary where it appeared, disappeared, and appeared again, suggesting that perhaps the light was never following us at all, but simply existing in a place that we passed through, a silent presence on the mountain that reveals itself only at certain moments, leaving behind a question that cannot be answered, whether it is merely an illusion shaped by darkness and distance, or something else entirely, something that watches quietly from the night, waiting for travelers to unknowingly step into its path.