It was the kind of day that could make you forget the world was still turning, that anything mattered beyond the stillness in the air. The sky was an aching shade of blue, and the trees—those old, tired trees—swayed gently, like they were too weary to care. James Hartley sat on the stone wall that ran along the perimeter of his grandmother’s garden, knees pulled to his chest, clutching the compass that his father had given him the day before he disappeared.

James had spent most of the summer here, in the quiet corner of the country where nothing ever happened. Or at least, nothing worth writing down. The village, nestled between two hills that always seemed to block the horizon, was the sort of place where time dragged its feet. People came here when they didn’t want to be found.

And now it was his turn.

The boy examined the compass, hoping, once again, that it might somehow work. But no matter which way he turned it, the needle refused to point north. It spun, sometimes lazily, sometimes frantically, but it always settled on the wrong direction, a direction that didn’t exist. His father had promised him it would lead him home, but how could something so broken guide anyone anywhere?

“I think it’s telling you something,” a voice said.

James hadn’t noticed the girl approach. She stood at the gate of the garden, hands in her pockets, looking at him like she already knew everything there was to know.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m Alice,” she said, brushing a strand of dark hair out of her face. “I’ve seen you around. You’re always sitting here, staring at that thing.” She nodded toward the compass.

James wasn’t sure what to make of her. She was older than him, maybe by a year or two, but she had the sort of face that made it hard to guess. Her eyes were sharp, like she was always figuring things out, but there was something soft about her too, like she’d seen enough to know when to be kind.

“It’s broken,” he said, looking back down at the compass. “It’s supposed to point north, but it doesn’t.”

Alice took a step closer, leaning on the gate as if she was deciding whether to come in or not. “Maybe it’s not meant to point north. Maybe it’s trying to show you something else.”

James frowned. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Alice said, shrugging. “Maybe it’s pointing to where you’re supposed to go.”

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James shook his head. “It’s broken.”

“So’s everyone,” Alice said, stepping through the gate. “Doesn’t mean we’re not going anywhere.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the air thick with that stillness again. James wanted to ask her why she was here, what she was doing, but something about her presence made him feel like those questions didn’t matter. Not yet.

“Do you want to find out?” Alice asked.

“Find out what?”

“Where it’s pointing.”

James looked down at the compass again. It had stopped spinning now, the needle quivering, pointing to the left of the stone wall, toward the woods beyond the garden. A place he’d never been.

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

Alice smiled, a small, knowing smile. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll show you.”

Before he could think better of it, James slid off the wall and followed her through the garden, past the gate, and into the woods. The compass stayed in his hand, its needle fixed on that strange, impossible direction.

They walked in silence for a while, the soft crunch of leaves underfoot the only sound between them. The air grew cooler under the canopy of trees, and James felt that odd sense of time slipping away. As if they were walking into a place where clocks didn’t matter.

“Do you miss him?” Alice asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.

James looked up. “My dad?”

Alice nodded.

“I don’t know,” James said, feeling the weight of the words. “I don’t really remember him.”

Alice stopped walking, turning to face him. “I think you do,” she said, her eyes searching his face.

James wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong, but something in the way she looked at him made it hard to speak. Instead, he glanced down at the compass. The needle had stopped again, pointing straight ahead to a clearing just beyond a cluster of trees.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” Alice said softly. “I think you’re just afraid of where it’s leading you.”

James swallowed hard. “Where is that?”

Alice took a step closer to him, her voice a whisper now. “To him.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, James felt like he couldn’t breathe. The clearing ahead seemed different now, charged with something he couldn’t name. And in his hand, the compass felt heavier, like it was pulling him forward.

“Are you ready?” Alice asked.

James didn’t answer. Instead, he took a deep breath and stepped into the clearing, the sunlight filtering through the trees casting long shadows across the grass. For a moment, everything was still. But then, in the center of the clearing, he saw it—a small wooden box, half-buried in the earth.

He knelt down, his hands trembling as he brushed away the dirt, revealing the box’s worn surface. Slowly, carefully, he opened it.

Inside, there was a letter.

James’s heart raced as he unfolded the paper, the familiar handwriting making his chest tighten. It was his father’s.

James,

If you’ve found this, it means the compass worked after all. I know I haven’t been the father you needed, but I hope this helps you understand why I left. I couldn’t take you with me, not yet. But one day, you’ll find your way. You always do.

Love, Dad.

Tears blurred the words, but James didn’t wipe them away. He just sat there, holding the letter, the weight of it all pressing down on him.

Alice stood behind him, silent but there, like she knew this was his moment.

And in his hand, the compass stopped shaking.

It pointed north.