Marking North

I stepped out into the midday air, walking along the avenue toward the sidewalk market. On a weathered wooden crate draped in coarse linen, an old brass pocket compass lay open to the light. Its hinged lid cast a sharp dark crescent across the etched wind rose. I stepped closer, bracing my boots against the edge of a tarnished brass key to steady my stance. The slender blued needle trembled, drifting slowly until it caught the pull of the north. With both hands, I nudged the knurled outer ring, rotating the bezel until the arrow aligned true with the point. A silent lock. The street now had direction.