The signal did not travel through wires or light.
It moved through attention.
Ethan felt it before the compass reacted, a tightening behind his eyes, a sense that something had leaned closer to the world without touching it yet. The air carried the same stillness that came before a storm—not charged, not loud, but waiting for a trigger small enough to be missed and important enough to matter.
The compass followed a moment later.
It did not vibrate or warm. It clicked—a soft, mechanical sound he had never heard from it before, as if an internal threshold had been crossed. The needle locked into place, not pointing north or toward the lighthouse, but holding perfectly still.
Centered.
“That’s new,” Noah said, watching Ethan’s hand. “It’s not reacting. It’s… acknowledging.”
Ethan swall
