Here is the full English translation of your beautifully written passage, preserving its poetic tone and rhythm:
Coastal towns always hold the night close.
After autumn sets in, the wind blows in from the cape like an invisible hand, brushing over tiles and ropes, pressing salt into people's collars. One by one, the harbor lights go out, until only the lighthouse remains, blinking in the distance.
When I was a child, I thought it was a signal meant for someone out there: the path is there—don't get lost.
But over the years, the lighthouse just blinked into empty sea, sending signals into silence, as if asking silence for a reply.
I first heard that song at the mouth of an alley, after the market had packed up for the night.
An old violin maker rested his instrument on his lap and ran the bow across the strings—like a seabird skimming the spine of the tide.
His voice held both gravel and warmth.
He sang:
"Remember, there's a song that says the night stars sometimes scatter gold.
To find it, you must go far and face the unknown alone."
At first, the crowd laughed. Then they fell quiet. Someone tossed a few copper coins into his box, and the empty case echoed like a deep, hollow well.
Back then, I thought it was just a tale adults told to amuse children.
But that line stuck with me—like salt lingering in the night wind, growing clearer with time.
Last night, the clouds parted slightly under the wind's hand, and the stars—nudged by some unseen fingertip—suddenly flared, blindingly bright.
I saw shafts of light fall from the sky like fine golden leaves.
They drifted silently into the northern sea.
Waves rolled afterward, like the satisfied belch of something that had just swallowed a secret.
In that moment, the lighthouse's beam swept across my feet, like it was handing me a kind of fate.
When I returned to my room, the letter on the table was still unsigned: just an old sea chart, its edges scorched, the blackened parts still faintly smelling of smoke.
It marked the town, the cape, the reefs, and wind currents.
In the blank northern quadrant, a patch of gold dust had been brushed on—thin as an echo of the light I'd seen.
Beside it, a fine line of print read:
"Depart before dawn. Alone."
I didn't ask who sent it. Not asking made it feel more like an answer.
I pulled out the things I had saved in my drawer for years:
A worn compass, a piece of waterproof fuse cord, a dulled folding knife, and a tin cup engraved with my mother's name.
They felt like old friends—silent, but nodding to each other under the lamp's glow.
I oiled my boots, tightened the laces.
The canvas bag on my shoulder wasn't packed too full—
For those who travel alone, luggage should be light, and the heart even lighter.
Outside the window, the early tide shifted in the dark like a great beast turning over.
The neighbor's dog barked twice, then went back to sleep.
My hand paused on the door bolt; I could hear a drumbeat in my heartbeat, the rhythm of oars breaking the water.
Some would say: This is reckless.
Others would scoff: There's no gold, only disappointment in the northern sea.
But I know—
If I don't take this step, then all the winds in this town will remain just winds,
And all the songs just songs.
I turned once before stepping out.
The sea chart lay on the table like a flag not yet raised.
I thought of that song.
Of the violin maker's trembling fingers as he lifted his bow.
Of the look in his eyes, as deep as the sea itself.
So I closed the door gently—startling no one, saying no goodbyes.
To be alone is a decision, not a punishment.
The faraway is a line that starts from the lighthouse's foot and stretches to the end of night.
By the time I reached the dock, the eastern sky was just turning pale.
The tide's voice had the ring of metal—maybe shards of ice, or the echo of stardust.
I placed the compass in my palm.
The needle pointed steadily north.
Truthfully, I don't expect to fish out any real gold from the sea.
I just want to confirm that what the song spoke of—that shower of golden starlight—really happened.
Or perhaps it always happens, and we were simply late.
I stepped into the little boat, unfastened the stern rope.
The flag at the masttop fluttered gently in the dawn light.
I said to myself:
If the unknown is a vast night, then let me be the nail hurled into its frame, anchoring myself there.
The wind gave me a nudge from behind.
The lighthouse's beam swept over the waves—like a great eye closing, then opening again.
I gripped the oar and rowed north.
Whether the stars' gold is real or not—
after tonight, I will take "the faraway" as my name,
and begin to learn how to offer my fear to the sea,
and how to keep my hope for myself.
As for the line from the song—
I am willing to spend my life testing its truth and tenderness.
Let me know if you'd like this adapted into a prologue, a narrator's monologue, or something even more lyrical.