Chapter 1 — Compass of Doubt

Logan

Logan Hayes sat in the dim glow of the single overhead bulb, his fingers tracing the delicate carvings of the wooden compass resting on his workbench. Floral and geometric patterns etched into the wood caught the soft light, the shadows dancing in their grooves. Inside, the needle wavered, trembling erratically, never finding true north. It was one of his earliest projects, crafted a decade ago when his passion for carpentry burned brighter than his fear of failure. Now, it sat as a quiet relic of dreams abandoned.

The scent of sawdust lingered in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of old tools. Around him, the workshop—a haven tucked behind his modest rental house—was steeped in silence, broken only by the occasional creak of the oak stool beneath him and the low hum of the heater. Pegboards lined the walls, each tool meticulously arranged: chisels, mallets, planes, their sharp edges glinting faintly. It was a space of order and precision, but Logan’s thoughts were anything but steady.

He turned the compass over in his calloused hands, his thumb pausing over a small nick in the wood. The imperfection was nearly invisible now, but Logan knew exactly where it was. He’d spent hours sanding and carving to smooth it out, a lesson in patience and perseverance. He kept the compass not because it was perfect, but because it wasn’t. It reminded him of who he used to be—someone who believed flaws could be mended, that broken things could be made whole again.

His father’s voice surfaced in his mind, unbidden. “Every piece you make has a story, son. Even the mistakes.” The memory struck soft and bittersweet, vivid as though his father were still beside him in the workshop, offering quiet encouragement. Logan could almost hear the steady rhythm of his father’s hands shaping wood, feel the warmth of his presence. Those days had felt so certain, so full of promise. He’d been sure, back then, that he could build a life out of his craft, create things people would treasure the same way he’d treasured his father’s old tools. But certainty had faded with time, worn down by failure after failure, leaving behind nothing but the weight of unfulfilled potential.

The sharp buzz of his phone shattered the stillness, jolting him from his reverie. He exhaled sharply, setting the compass down as though it might crack under too much pressure. The screen lit up with Jake Tanner’s name, and Logan’s first instinct was to let it ring out. But Jake wasn’t one to give up easily; the phone would buzz again, louder and more insistent.

Logan grabbed the phone and flipped it open. “Yeah?”

“Don’t ‘yeah’ me,” came Jake’s brash, familiar voice. “You brooding in that hermit cave of yours again?”

Logan smirked faintly, leaning back on the stool and letting his gaze drift toward the frost-covered window. Moonlight spilled over the rolling hills outside, bathing the landscape in silver light. “It’s called working, Jake. You should try it sometime.”

“Working on what?” Jake shot back. “Another sad little birdhouse for the county fair?”

Logan shook his head, his smirk tugging wider in spite of himself. “I haven’t made a birdhouse in years.”

“Well, you’re about to make my day, then. Got a big job tomorrow—moving some lady out of her house and into the city. You in, or do I need to find someone who doesn’t have sawdust for brains?”

Logan rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the weight of reluctance settle over him like a heavy coat. Moving jobs were steady, practical work, but they left him hollow. He spent his days hauling other people’s lives in cardboard boxes, while his own dreams gathered dust. Still, it was safe, predictable. A way to keep his head above water.

“Who’s the client?” he asked, more to stall than out of genuine curiosity.

“Does it matter? She’s paying, she’s got a lot of stuff, and it’s gotta get done. Furniture, boxes, probably fifty thousand throw pillows. You know the drill. Just say yes, Hayes. I already told her we’d do it.”

Logan frowned, his jaw tightening. He could picture Jake now, leaning back in his creaky kitchen chair, grinning like he’d already won. Jake always had a way of cornering him into these jobs, counting on Logan’s dependable nature to close the deal.

His eyes flicked back to the compass on the workbench. Its needle twitched, trembling in indecision, mirroring the knot in Logan’s chest. Taking the job meant stepping out of his sanctuary—a small, ordered world where failure stayed hidden. But saying no? That would mean admitting to himself, more than anyone, that he was too afraid to try.

“Fine,” Logan muttered.

“Atta boy! Seven sharp. And don’t make me come drag you out of there.”

The line clicked dead before he could respond, leaving him alone once more with the hum of the heater. He glanced at the compass again. Its flawed beauty, its refusal to point true north—it felt like a challenge. One he didn’t yet feel ready to face.

Logan rose abruptly and crossed the workshop to a set of shelves stacked with wood scraps. His fingers brushed over a cedar plank, its grain smooth and warm beneath his touch. He thought of the projects he used to dream about—tables with hidden drawers, chairs that felt like art. Once, those ideas had seemed so vivid, so possible. Now, they felt impossibly distant, buried beneath years of routine and self-doubt.

His gaze settled on the corner of the workshop, where a worn wooden drawer sat beneath the workbench. He hadn’t opened it in years, but he didn’t need to. He knew exactly what it held: the tattered business plan for the woodworking venture he’d tried to launch in his twenties. It was a relic of hope and ambition, and a stark reminder of all the ways he’d fallen short.

For a long moment, Logan stood there, his hand hovering near the drawer. Then he turned away, his movements deliberate. Dwelling on the past wouldn’t change it. He grabbed a clean rag and began wiping down the workbench, the repetitive motion grounding him in the present. Tomorrow was just another job. Another day of lifting and loading. Nothing more.

But as he flipped off the overhead light and stepped out into the cold night air, the compass lingered in his mind. Its needle quivered faintly, as if reaching for something just out of sight. Logan paused on the doorstep, glancing back toward the workshop. The compass sat in the dimness, as flawed and unfinished as he felt. And yet, it endured.

For now, he would follow the same routine he always had: show up, work hard, and keep his head down. Anything more felt like a risk he couldn’t take—not yet.