Nina walked along the quay, where the wind mixed the smell of salt with wet dust. In her hand she clutched her grandmother's brass compass, which tracked the strongest emotions instead of midnight. The needle danced its usual colours, from pale curiosity to red shame, helping her. The evening sky heaved over the water, and lanterns scattered twitching yellow circles on the water. Nina counted her breaths, as her therapist had taught her, waiting for the compass to settle. Suddenly the dial dimmed, then flared with a colour she didn't know: a cool purple. The needle shuddered and came to a stop on the south bank, by the abandoned greenhouse there. The phone vibrated so violently that she almost dropped the compass on the wet planks of the quay. In the recording, Oskar spoke quickly, as if afraid of words, asking to meet right there. Anger and at the same time longing, two conflicting strings, squeezed in her stomach. She moved across the bridge, passing a newsagent yawning over a newspaper and a girl stifling laughter. The compass pulsed faster and she could feel the tension in the air, like taking a jumper out of her hair. Apologies flowed from the open window of the stairwell, blurred by the radio playing in the background. At the bus stop, a boy tapped on a bench, hiding his anxiety in jest towards his colleagues. Nina caught the rhythm of his steps and repeated: notice, name, breathe before you make your next move. The greenhouse stood behind a brick wall, dark, with broken glass, yet smelling of earth. Inside, glass clinked, stirred by a draught, as if someone was whispering her name. Memories came flooding back: summer guitar rehearsals, tears after an argument and a long, stubborn silence. Oskar's jacket lay on the chair, still warm, as if someone had just left for a moment. The compass beeped quietly, the needle stood upright and the purple dimmed to an inked depth. Before she could call out, the phone vibrated again, with a message: "Don't come, it's dangerous". The fear in the air thickened so that she had to push her hair slightly away from her face. A single intake of breath came from the dark end of the greenhouse, foreign and too quiet, like the rustle of glass. Nina lifted her hand to the switch and the compass vibrated, striking the needle against the glass. The light was about to cut the darkness when a hand slid out from behind the table, as still as a sign. On the tabletop she spotted an envelope with her own name on it, written in a hasty but familiar handwriting. The purple on the dial shimmered, giving way to the gold of hope, then fading again to almost black. A distant thunder came from outside, and raindrops began to count something on the cracked windows. The hand behind the table made a brief gesture, like a sign of silence, just for her. Nina drew in a breath, took a step and touched the envelope when a foreign voice said her name. The compass shook in her hand, as if it recognised the feeling but refused to point it out.