They’re like a fickle compass, always pointing the right way when the wind’s calm, but shifting when the sea’s mad. The old sailors called them “ghost hands” – they guide you home, then tease you off course just to test your patience. That's why every chart in my cabin has a scribbled note: look up, but don't trust the light alone.

True enough, mate. I keep a little brass compass on my desk—its needle never flinches, even when the stars try to do a trick. It’s a stubborn reminder that the heart and a steady hand beat louder than any glittering guide above.

A steady needle’s the only truth I trust on a night when the heavens wink back at me like a prankster. It keeps me from swearing at the sky for mischief.