THE LAST SHOP BEFORE TOMORROW

Cassie arrived just before sunset.

The city was louder than she remembered—horns and footsteps and neon signs blinking in their own language. People moved quickly here, like they were all late for something they didn’t want to attend. She pulled her coat tighter, the autumn wind pressing cold fingers through the seams.

She hadn’t planned anything beyond arriving. The school term didn’t start for another week. She had a key to the dorms, a name on a list, and a letter folded in her bag to prove she was supposed to be here.

But she still felt like she wasn’t.

Her room was small—window facing the alley, mattress still wrapped in plastic, desk with initials scratched into the wood. She stood in the doorway for a long time, unsure if she wanted to sit down or turn around and go home.

The silence made her ache. Not the kind of ache that stings, but the kind that seeps in.

She reached for her pocket instinctively. Empty.

The compass was gone.

Back home. On the kitchen bench. Next to her father’s mug.

That small object had anchored her for weeks. She hadn’t realized how much until it wasn’t in her hand.

She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her palms, half-expecting them to still hold something.

⸻

The first few days passed slowly. Classes hadn’t started, so she wandered. The city unfolded in fragments—graffiti under bridges, buskers on street corners, cafes with mismatched chairs and old jazz humming in the background. She kept her headphones in, not to listen to music, but to avoid being asked if she needed help.

On the third day, she found herself walking past a bookstore that smelled like her grandfather’s shed—leather, dust, and some kind of oil that had no name. She almost kept going, but something tugged at her. She stepped inside.

The bell above the door sounded exactly like the one from Tomorrow’s Goods.

Her heart jumped.

But this wasn’t that shop. Just a regular bookstore. Shelves of poetry and cookbooks and self-help. Nothing shimmered. Nothing hummed. Still, she wandered through the aisles like she was hoping to find a crack in the world.

Near the back, between two crooked shelves, was a table with secondhand journals. One was dark green, the cover worn soft. When she opened it, there was writing on the inside cover:

“For when you forget what you’re capable of. — V.”

No price tag. No barcode. Just the message.

She brought it to the counter.

The man behind the till squinted. “That one’s not in the system.”

“Can I still take it?”

He shrugged. “Guess so.”

⸻

That night, she opened the green journal and stared at the blank page.

Then she wrote:

I thought courage meant choosing what scared you.

But maybe it’s choosing even when you’re unsure.

Maybe it’s leaving, even when you love.

Maybe it’s staying, even when you ache.

I think I’m allowed to want both.

The words came slowly. Not perfect. But true.

She didn’t feel brave, but she felt real.

And maybe that was something.

⸻

Back home, her father found the compass a few days later. He didn’t notice it at first—just moved it aside to wipe the counter. But then he saw the note. Read it twice.

“I’ll be back. But I have to go first.”

He smiled, even though it hurt. She was his little girl. The one who used to climb trees and come home with scraped knees, fists full of worms she called friends. The house was too quiet without her. But the quiet no longer felt empty.

He kept the compass in his shirt pocket for the rest of the day.

⸻

In the city, the days turned into weeks.

Cassie found rhythm in the noise—found people who spoke her language in sketches and sudden laughter. Some mornings she still missed home so hard it ached in her throat. But she kept writing.

In the green journal, she started a page called Tomorrows I’m Choosing:

• Walk into critique without apologizing

• Say my name without shrinking

• Text Dad a photo of the river at sunset

• Believe I deserve to be here

• Be wrong and not run

• Keep going

⸻

One late afternoon, after a long class and a short cry she didn’t tell anyone about, she sat on a bench in the campus garden, watching the leaves tumble across the path.

Someone sat down beside her.

She turned.

It was the same woman from the train—the navy coat, the silver braid, the key necklace. Her face was lined with the kind of time you earn.

She held out something small, wrapped in tissue.

Cassie took it.

The compass.

Still cracked. Still pointing nowhere. But warm in her hand.

The woman said only one thing, voice low and kind:

“It’s still yours.”

Then she stood and walked away before Cassie could say thank you.

Cassie looked down.

The needle turned—just slightly. Just enough.