“Yes.”
She studied it.
“Mom said Grandpa used to claim it pointed home.”
“He did.”
“But north isn’t where the cottage is.”
I looked around.
At the barn filled with music.
At Clara laughing beneath the lights.
At Luis and his family.
At Rachel setting plates on the table without being asked.
At Marcus kneeling to help a child repair a wooden toy.
At the fields preserved for another generation.
“Your grandfather was not talking about a place,” I said.
“What was he talking about?”
“A choice.”
Lily frowned thoughtfully.
“What kind of choice?”
“The choice to become someone others are safe beside.”
She closed her fingers around the compass.
Across the orchard, Rachel called her name.
Lily ran toward her.
The evening continued beneath a sky crowded with stars.
Marcus did not ask about the trust.
Rachel did not mention inheritance.
No one argued about money.
Near midnight, my children joined me beneath the oldest apple tree.
