Compass and autumn leaves on a forearm

The lift is out again, so I walked the eleven flights with the shopping and the post, and by the landing the stairwell smelled of wet conkers and bonfire smoke. The caretaker has propped the back doors open with a bucket of sand, and every time the wind gets up, leaves from the plane tree in the car park come skittering through and race up the concrete as if they're late for something. Mrs Okafor on six says they are the last of the summer, come to find us. I told her the summer never came looking for anyone on this estate.

I found your compass in the drawer under the phone. You left it behind when you went, the brass one with the cracked glass, and I kept meaning to post it. This morning I set it on the windowsill so the needle could settle. North points more or less at the Tesco sign, which seems about right, given how often you were in there for crisps at eleven with your pockets full of coppers.

Don't ring me Sunday after nine, because the phone box at the bottom has no light and I can't hear a thing over the lads playing football against the bins. Write instead, properly, with a stamp. Tell me about the new flat, whether the kitchen has a window that opens, and whether anyone there knows what a proper mince pie tastes like.

I'm keeping the compass where it is. If the wind keeps blowing the way it has been, and you ever feel like walking back up those stairs, you'll know which way home is.