The days that followed were a blur. Eliyas had always thought of his routine as comfortable, predictable, but now, after spending time in the tranquil solitude of the café and the forest, the constant noise of the city felt like a dull weight on his shoulders.
Each morning, his alarm shrieked like a dying machine. He'd slam it silent with a palm still rough from gripping the compass, the brass edges having left faint indentations in his skin. Dressing was automatic: synthetic-fiber slacks, polished shoes that pinched his heels, a tie knotted too tight. The mirror showed a stranger with shadowed eyes and a jaw clenched against the city's metallic taste.
On the train, he kept his gloveless hands in his pockets, fingertips tracing the whorls of the compass face. Commuters jostled against him, their perfume and sweat and hurried breath a far cry from the café's woodsmoke and old paper. Someone's elbow jabbed his ribs; he didn't flinch. His body had become a hollow thing, going through motions while his nerves still thrummed with the memory of true quiet.
At his desk, spreadsheets glowed accusingly. The numbers blurred as his gaze drifted to the window, where smog softened the skyline. A headache pulsed behind his left eye . He pressed two fingers there, remembering how it had ached when the owner spoke of lies and leaving.
Meetings passed in a haze of nodding and murmured agreements. His coffee went cold in its Helion-branded cup. Once, Rae snapped her fingers in his face, her nails lacquered the exact shade of the corporation's logo and asked if he was "still functional." He'd smiled with all the warmth of a flickering holoscreen.
Nights were worse. His apartment's climate control whirred like a living thing, its rhythms out of sync with his breathing. He lay atop the covers, still wearing his socks, staring at the ceiling's faint glow-in-the-dark constellations—a childish relic he'd never bothered to remove. Outside, neon signs painted his walls in garish colors, their reflections warping in the rain-streaked glass.
The compass weighed heavy on his nightstand. Some nights he held it until the brass warmed to body temperature, the needle twitching as if sensing some invisible current. The owner's words echoed in the dark
Eliyas rolled onto his side, his work pants wrinkling, the security pass still clipped to his belt digging into his hip. He thought of the owner's hands building a life from nothing but will and time. Thought of his own hands, soft from keyboards, ink-stained from reports, empty of anything real.
The city hummed below, a beast that never slept. Somewhere beyond its walls, a fire burned in a stone hearth.
He closed his eyes. The ceiling constellations glowed faintly, like dying stars.
He thought of the owner's words: "I regret only what I didn't leave sooner." And the truth of it resonated in him, louder than anything he had heard before. But what was he supposed to leave behind
There was no clear answer