I wanted to establish the recurring object as something navigational but intimate — a compass small enough to press against skin, to hide, to forget you're holding. The salt warehouse gives us scale and abandonment: a place where things were measured, traded, lost. The Dinka-Sardinian fusion lets me play with height and isolation meeting island commerce, the mathematics of survival. She's not grieving — she's calculating. That's the weight I want: inheritance as arithmetic, the compass as a debt she keeps choosing not to pay.