He opened his palm. The brass compass sat there, polished to a softer gold than she remembered. The lid bore a new inscription, small and careful, done by a jeweler on Main Street who engraved trophies for high school athletes and, occasionally, quieter victories: *E.W. — True enough. — R.C.*
Ellen opened it. The needle settled, faithful, unimpressed by inscriptions. She closed it and put it in her coat pocket, over her heart, and for the first time since Christmas Eve she cried without trying to hide it, in public, on a platform where strangers were good enough to look elsewhere.
"I was supposed to give this away," she said.