Needle in the Briars

I held that tarnished brass compass flat in my palm and marched straight into the overgrown back hedge, letting the twitching needle pick the path. The damp briars kept snagging my sleeves, but I shoved right through until the needle spun in a half-circle and locked onto a tangle of ivy roots. Right at the base of the hedge, sunken halfway into the black dirt, was a small wooden box bound in rusted iron straps. I crouched down and scraped away a thick mat of rotting leaves, uncovering a heavy brass padlock crusted with green verdigris. My fingers went straight to my side bag—that old key from behind the shed finally has some explaining to do.