The antique shop’s bell chimed as Margaret entered, sending dust motes dancing in the late afternoon light. Among the cluttered shelves and glass cases, her eyes fixed upon a brass compass, its surface dulled by time but still emanating an inexplicable allure.

“Interesting choice,” the shopkeeper remarked, his accent a peculiar blend of East and West. “This compass has quite a history.”

Margaret ran her fingers along its cool surface. “Does it still work?”

“Oh yes,” he smiled knowingly. “Though some say it points to what the heart seeks rather than true north.”

“How theatrical,” she replied with practiced indifference, though something in his words stirred a distant memory.

The compass reminded her of Richard and their last conversation in this very city, twenty years ago. He had been leaving for Shanghai, chasing dreams of fortune in the East.

“I’ll find my way back to you,” he had promised, pressing a similar compass into her palm. “Keep this as my guarantee.”

She had believed him then, young and naive as she was. But years passed, and his letters grew shorter, more distant, until they stopped altogether.

Now, standing in the shop with its successor in her hands, Margaret felt that old familiar ache. “I’ll take it,” she decided, her voice carrying more resolution than she intended.

The shopkeeper’s eyes crinkled. “Shall I wrap it?”

“No need,” she replied, slipping it into her purse. Outside, the setting sun painted the western sky in shades of amber and rose.

Later that evening, in her hotel room overlooking the Bund, Margaret placed the compass beside her untouched dinner. The needle swayed gently before settling - not northward, but toward the sprawling city beyond her window.

Her phone buzzed: an email from her secretary about tomorrow’s business meetings. She was no longer the wide-eyed girl waiting for love’s return. Time had transformed her into something harder, more pragmatic - a successful businesswoman who had learned to navigate life’s uncertainties without need for direction.

Yet the compass pulled at something buried deep within her, like a key fitting into a long-forgotten lock.

A knock at her door interrupted her reverie. “Room service,” a male voice called.

“I didn’t order anything,” she replied, but opened the door anyway.

There stood Richard, two decades older but unmistakable. In his hands, he held a weathered brass compass identical to the one on her table.

Their eyes met, and the years between them seemed to compress into a single breath. Neither spoke immediately, letting the weight of recognition settle between them like dust after a storm.

Finally, Richard broke the silence. “Mine always pointed west,” he said softly. “To you.”

Margaret’s hand instinctively moved to touch the compass in her room, but she remained in the doorway, poised between past and present. The needle of her newly acquired compass trembled slightly, as if uncertain which direction to choose.