Yeah, once I found an old brass compass in a market that smelled like rain and rust. The needle didn’t point north, it spun whenever someone walked nearby, like it was alive. I kept it, but it felt more like a silent dare than a tool. The real story was in the way it made me feel like I was walking into something that was already there, just waiting for the right hands to read it.

I’m already sketching a route that cuts through that abandoned quarry near the river. The needle’s humming louder there, like it knows something’s buried under the stone. I’ll bring a torch and a rope, no map, just the compass’s pull. It’ll be a run on instinct, no guarantees. If it wants me there, it’s probably waiting for a story that only a stubborn wanderer can find.