The compass needle sprang to life the moment they turned south, a thawed needle pointing steadfastly towards warm land. Samira tucked it into the pocket against her chest, next to the warming ember-star—one was direction, the other was heartbeat, both steady now.
The tundra ended at an abandoned railway. Soft moss grew between the sleepers; the tracks rusted red, like two blood vessels scorched by time. Samira walked along the sleepers, Karim counting the cracks on her back: "One, two, three..." At the seventh sleeper, he stopped. "Sis," he whispered, "someone wrote here."
She crouched. Inside the rail, white stones spelled out a crooked sentence:
*If you're tired, go south. Apple blossoms are in the south.*
Rain had blurred the words, but a small "&" at the end was still visible—like Ilyas's mark in the ice lamp, or the orchard woman's unfinished farewell.
The ember-star pulsed warmly in her palm, answering the graffiti. Samira pressed her fingertip to the "&". Stone dust flaked away, revealing deeper carving beneath:
*—The end of north is south.*
She laughed, her eyes suddenly stinging. The destination had been written all along. She just needed to turn the direction herself.
Following the tracks south, the wind softened, carrying the scent of earth and dried grass. By evening, they reached a derelict station—its sign swallowed by moss, only the final upward stroke of the character for "South" defiantly visible. At the platform's end sat a green railway carriage, half its windows shattered, the other half covered in plastic sheeting painted with an apple so red it seemed to bleed juice.
Inside the carriage, the stove fire was long cold, but the scent of pine wood and caramel lingered. Old mail sacks piled in a corner, sewn shut with red thread, identical to the one Aisha had given them. On the top sack lay a postcard. Its front showed the ice dome under the aurora. The back read:
*Those going south, leave your echoes here.*
*Recipient: All souls still heading north.*
Signed in small letters: *Ilyas & Nameless Cape*.
Samira opened the top sack. It was empty, but at the bottom lay a brass postmark stamp—shaped like a seed, its edge engraved with fine coordinates: *50°N, 20°E*—a station on an old Central European railway line, a place her mother had passed in her youth.
She placed the ember-star inside the sack beside the stamp. Metal met charcoal with a soft *ping*, like gears long separated finally meshing. The ember-star's color shifted from black to brown, like a wick reigniting, but its warmth no longer pointed north—it pointed south. Towards dust, markets, apple blossoms, and a home not yet named.
Karim placed the honey jar beside the sack. "For the next one going north," he whispered.
Samira nodded. She turned the postcard over and wrote on the blank back:
*We went north until fire became charcoal.*
*Now we go south until charcoal blooms again.*
*—Samira & Karim*
She slipped the postcard into the sack, sewing it shut with red thread. Outside, the last rays of sunset fell on the tracks, plating the rust-red steel in gentle orange. In the distance, a train whistle sounded, like a lamp flaring to life at the edge of the polar night.
Samira lifted Karim onto her back and jumped down from the carriage. The tracks stretched south, vanishing into twilight and fields of wheat. The wind pushed at their backs, warm with dried grass, soft with hearth smoke, carrying a voiceless invitation:
Southward, southward—
Go home.