"Then build your own field," she said. "But remember: the stronger the magnet, the more metal you’ll have to carry."

Elias realized then that people didn't come here to buy magnets. They came to buy a sense of direction. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of dull, grey pebbles he’d found on the street.

"Neodymium Dreams," she warned. "Strong enough to pull a heart out of a chest from across a crowded room. Be careful what you attract with those. You might find yourself pinned to a destiny you aren't strong enough to carry."

The shopkeeper, a woman whose skin looked like crumpled parchment, didn't look up when he entered. "The industrial aisle is for those who want to hold things together," she whispered, her voice like grinding stones. "The rare-earth magnets are for those who want to tear things apart."

The old shop on Cinder Street didn’t have a sign, only a rusted iron latch that felt cold even in mid-July. Elias didn’t go there for refrigerator trinkets or office supplies; he went because he was losing his pull.

In this world, everyone is born with a specific magnetic north—a quiet, internal tug toward a person, a place, or a purpose. Elias’s needle had gone dead. He felt weightless, drifting through the city like a dandelion seed in a vacuum.

Elias walked to the back, where the air felt heavy, thick with the smell of ozone and wet pavement. He found a jar of small, midnight-blue stones. They weren't polished; they were jagged, humming with a frequency that made his teeth ache.