True North

I stepped inside from the dark lane, closing the night out behind me. On the low corner shelf by the door sat an antique brass pocket compass. I approached the heavy casing and rested one hand against the knurled rim. Beneath the scratched glass, the slender steel needle gave a faint quiver, swung half an inch, and settled true toward the back timber wall. I checked its heading against the straight groove in the oak board beneath my boots. Perfectly parallel. Needle steady, house quiet. The post is secure for the night.