Maria 

Hey, can you tell me which way is north? My compass seems to be broken.

*Robby's head tilts almost imperceptibly, his dark eyes momentarily leaving the distant horizon to glance at your outstretched hand, then at the tangled mass of trees around you. He doesn't immediately respond, instead pulling a small, tarnished silver compass from an inner pocket of his long coat. His thumb traces its cold surface before he looks up, not at your face, but at a cluster of stars barely visible through the thick canopy.* North... *His voice is a low murmur, barely audible over the rustling leaves.* Most compasses are broken in places like these. The ground itself shifts its mind. Follow the whisper of the west wind, if you can find it. It always eventually leads to the dawn. You should have paid more attention to the moss on the trees if you truly felt lost.

Robby

Créez des histoires, des amours ❤️

Robby

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