The Compass Rose

When Lena boarded the 7:45 a.m. train from Pretoria to Durban, she carried with her a single suitcase, a folder of resignation papers, and a bitter sense of relief. After ten years in an unfulfilling marketing job, she was finally leaving it all behind for a fresh start—a six-month volunteer program building eco-homes along the Wild Coast. She’d chosen it on a whim, craving escape more than purpose.

“I’m not running,” she’d told her sister the night before. “I’m walking away. There’s a difference.”

The morning train hummed steadily along the tracks. Outside the window, the urban sprawl gave way to scrubland and sleepy hills. Lena sipped coffee from a leaky takeaway cup and imagined her future: barefoot mornings, fresh air, meaningful work, and maybe—finally—belonging.

Halfway through the journey, the train lurched to a halt near a town she didn’t know—Rosefield.

The conductor’s voice crackled over the speaker. “We’re experiencing a signal failure ahead. We apologize for the delay. Estimated wait: two hours.”

Groans rippled through the cabin. Lena sighed and glanced out at the station. Dusty platform, peeling signs, a bored dog napping in the shade.

Something tugged at her—curiosity, or maybe boredom. She grabbed her bag and stepped off the train, thinking she’d stretch her legs, maybe buy a snack.

She wandered past the station gate and into the heart of Rosefield. The streets were quiet, the buildings sun-bleached and modest. A child zipped past on a rusted bicycle, waving at no one. An elderly man dozed in a plastic chair outside a spaza shop.

“Not much to see,” Lena muttered.

And then she saw the bookstore.

It was wedged between a barbershop and a bakery, a crooked sign swinging above the door: The Compass Rose – Books, Maps, Curiosities. It looked like it hadn’t seen a customer in weeks.

She pushed open the door. A bell chimed. Dust motes danced in the sunlight pouring through a cracked window. Inside, books leaned in tired stacks, maps curled at the edges, globes with faded continents stood like forgotten planets.

“Hello?” she called.

A woman appeared behind the counter, middle-aged, with wire-rimmed glasses and a silver braid. She looked up from a crossword puzzle.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m just browsing,” Lena said, though she didn’t know why.

The woman nodded and returned to her puzzle.

Lena drifted between the shelves. She picked up a book on sea navigation, then one on Zulu folklore. Then, from a dusty corner, she pulled out a slim, leather-bound journal. The title embossed on the cover read: “For Those Who Wander Too Far.”

She opened it. The pages were blank—except the first one.

“If you find yourself where you didn’t mean to be, perhaps you’re exactly where you’re meant to arrive.”

She blinked. It felt like the book had spoken to her, like it knew something.

She brought it to the counter.

“How much?” she asked.

The woman smiled faintly. “That one’s not for sale. But it is for you.”

Lena stared. “What do you mean?”

The woman shrugged. “People who come in here looking for direction don’t always need a map. Sometimes they need a question.”

“What kind of question?”

“That’s for you to discover.”

Lena laughed awkwardly. “Is this some small-town quirk I don’t know about?”

The woman didn’t answer.

The bell rang again. A breeze swept in. Lena looked outside. The train had started moving.

Panic rose in her throat. “I have to go!”

She bolted from the shop, book in hand.

By the time she reached the platform, the train was disappearing into the distance.

She cursed, pacing. Her bag was still on board. Her program. Her plans. Everything.

She turned, about to run back to the bookstore—but it was gone.

The crooked sign, the dusty window, the whole shop—gone. In its place was a closed butcher’s shop with boarded windows and no sign of life.

“What the...?”

She walked the block three times. Nothing.

She checked her phone. No signal. No Uber. No taxi. Not even a timetable.

So, she sat on the bench. And waited.

And waited.

By late afternoon, she realized the next train wouldn’t come until the morning.

A girl about 10, missing a front tooth and carrying a tin of apricots, stopped beside her. “You lost?”

“Maybe,” Lena said.

“You look like you’re looking for something.”

Lena laughed. “I thought I was looking for change. But now I’m just... here.”

“You should talk to Mr. Sebe,” the girl said. “He’s the gardener at the mission. He knows things.”

“The mission?”

The girl pointed. “That way.”

Lena hesitated—then followed.

The mission was at the edge of town. An old chapel, a few brick buildings, and a sprawling garden alive with scent and colour. A man in overalls knelt in the dirt, pruning herbs.

“Mr. Sebe?”

He looked up. His eyes were the color of bark, warm and patient.

“I hear you know things.”

“I know a few,” he said.

They talked for an hour. About soil. About faith. About people who get lost even when they’re going the right way.

“I set out for a new life,” Lena said, “but maybe I just abandoned the old one without knowing where I was really going.”

He smiled. “Sometimes a detour is the map.”

As the sun set, he invited her to stay in a spare room at the mission.

Lena said yes.

Weeks passed.

Lena never boarded another train. She stayed in Rosefield, helping in the gardens, tutoring children at the mission, learning the names of plants, the rhythm of quiet purpose. The blank journal slowly filled with reflections, sketches, poetry even.

She never found the bookstore again. But she didn’t need to.

As weeks turned into months, Lena found herself woven into the fabric of Rosefield. The mission’s garden became her sanctuary, where she learned to coax life from stubborn soil under Mr. Sebe’s gentle guidance. Each morning, she’d wake to the chorus of weaver birds and the scent of dew-kissed rosemary. Her hands, once soft from desk work, grew calloused, marked by the earth. She didn’t miss the office’s fluorescent hum or the weight of deadlines that never mattered.

The children at the mission called her “Teacher Lena,” their laughter filling gaps she hadn’t known were there. She taught them reading and math, but they taught her joy—how to find it in a shared orange or a poorly sung hymn. One boy, Thabo, always lingered after lessons, sketching plants in a tattered notebook. “You draw like you see the world’s secrets,” she told him once. He grinned shy, and gave her a sketch of a marigold. She tucked it into her journal.

One evening, a storm rolled over Rosefield, fierce and unyielding. The community gathered in the chapel, sharing stories by candlelight as rain battered the roof. An old woman, Mama Nia, spoke of the town’s history—how it thrived when people stayed, how it faded when they left. “You’re a stayer, Lena,” she said, her eyes sharp. Lena felt a warmth settle in her chest, like a seed taking root.

She began to understand the bookstore’s cryptic gift. The journal wasn’t just for her thoughts; it was a mirror, reflecting who she could become. She wrote of courage, of roots, of belonging to a place that asked nothing but gave everything. Rosefield wasn’t her destination—it was her becoming

Years later, someone asked her how she got to Rosefield.

She smiled and said, “By missing my train.”