"Month nine, she confiscated the compass while I slept. Locked it in her personal vault. I broke that night. Screamed. Clawed at her door. Begged. Threatened. Tried to find the compass by walking in every direction, hoping I'd feel its pull. I walked for three days. Collapsed in a field outside Lumeria. Mother found me. Brought me home. Got me help."
"And now?" Marron asked gently.
"Now I'm thirty-one. I've been in therapy for eight years. I can make simple decisions—what to eat, usually. What to wear, sometimes. But anything bigger—" She laughed, empty and bitter. "I freeze. Panic. Can't choose. The compass took my ability to trust my own judgment. Removing it didn't give that back. I'm better than I was. But I'm not—" Her voice broke. "I'm not whole. I'll never be whole. The compass took something I can't get back."
The room held heavy silence.
