True Bearing

I stepped onto the polished surface of the low oak sideboard, where the warm glow of the table lamp cut through the evening stillness. Beside a stack of thick leather coasters rested a heavy brass pocket compass. Its circular casing was cool against my palms, bearing faint scratches from past journeys. With a deliberate press of my thumb against the clasp, the hinged lid sprang open. Beneath the thick glass, the slender steel needle wavered, trembling between directions. I planted my boots and held my breath, offering the metal absolute stillness. Slow and sure, the trembling ceased, its dark tip locking onto true north.