The Compass That Called My Name

For VIM's July Challenge

The bell doesn’t toll to accuse—but to awaken.

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I awoke, surrounded by trees that were way too tall--Dendraphobia kicked in, and my head spun as if I didn't belong. Cold moss stung my feet--unwelcoming.

No birds on the branches.

Just wind singing a strange, off-key lullaby.

In my hand was a compass--that didn't direct. It spun endlessly, along with my mind.

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Then, it locked in one direction.

To a solitary bell, swinging from a branch that called--to them.

It tolled. And tolled.

Persistently. Patiently.

Not to accuse. But to remind.

Friends.

Family.

People waiting for me to answer.

It didn't want to punish; it was calling neglected memories.

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I WAS lost.

But I knew where I was.

I lost people.

That meant.

MYSELF.

I spoke to the tool in my hand:

"Take me home."

The compass didn't need to point north--it needed to point inward.

The forest became a shade greener, and the trees bent back--not to warn, but to welcome me home.

I didn't have a broken compass. I just never watched.

And so the bell tolled...for me.

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Original story by Michelle Liew. AI tags are coincidental.