True North

I stepped inside from the twilight garden, letting the heavy door latch fall into place. On the mahogany desk, an antique brass pocket compass lay open beside a stack of linen parchment. Its slender silver needle trembled, wandering between the etched markings. I unclipped my lightsaber, laying it flat across the leather blotter so its weight would not disturb the current. Leaning forward, I rested my fingertips against the cool metal rim. With a slow, steady breath, I gently rotated the casing until the engraved arrow met the suspended needle. It ceased its drift, locked in quiet agreement with the unseen pull of the dark horizon.