Night brought shadows across the plaza, gathering around the cast-iron base of a tall public street clock. Near the fluted column, a dropped silver pocket compass lay wedged askew against a raised paving seam, its hinged lid pinned halfway open by a dry maple seed pod. I approached with measured strides and planted my boots firmly on the damp flagstone. Bracing my balance, I cleared the seed with one hand, then gripped the round metal rim with both palms. Applying firm, deliberate torque, I rotated the casing until its hinge lined up squarely with the masonry joint. The floating needle settled into a clean, motionless heading beneath the glass. Rhythm and direction hold this corner secure.