The old man sat on the same bench every morning. It stood at the end of the promenade, where the cobblestones ended and the sand began. From there, you could see the sea arching toward the horizon, gray and endless.

The locals knew him. They called him the Professor, though no one knew if he ever had been one. He always wore the same gray coat, even in summer, and a hat whose brim was faded by the salt wind. In his left hand, he carried a walking stick he never used.

At six in the morning, he appeared, sat down, and stared out. At eleven, he got up and left. That was all. It had been like this for seven years, ever since he had moved into the small house by the dike. The locals had stopped asking questions. Some people wear their secrets like others wear their coats: visible, but untouchable.

That November morning, the sea was particularly calm. The sky hung low and gray, and the wind had died down. The old man immediately noticed that something was different. Not by the sea. On the beach. There was something lying there. Or someone.

He got to his feet more slowly than usual. His knees protested, but he ignored them. The path down to the beach wasn't far, perhaps fifty meters, but it felt longer today. The sand gave way beneath his shoes.

It was a man. Young, perhaps thirty. He was lying on his back, arms outstretched, as if he had lain down to sleep. But no one sleeps like that. Not on the beach. Not in November. Not in wet clothes.

The old man stopped. He studied the face. It was pale, almost waxen, but strangely peaceful. The eyes were closed. Around the stranger's neck, he wore a silver chain with a small pendant. A compass. The old man bent down and touched the man's neck. Cold. But not as cold as he had expected.

He straightened up and looked around. The beach was empty. The promenade deserted. Only the seagulls circled above the water, silent in the still air.

The old man could have gone to the police. He could have called someone. Instead, he sat down on the sand beside the dead man. He didn't know why. Perhaps because he himself had been alone for so long. Perhaps because this man, whoever he was, deserved someone to sit with him.

The minutes passed. The sea murmured softly. The old man thought of his wife, who had died eight years ago. Of his daughter, whom he hadn't seen in fifteen years. Of all the letters he had written and never sent. Life, he thought, is a collection of missed opportunities. And death is only the last of them.

He looked at the compass on its chain. The needle pointed north. Of course it did. Compasses don't lie. They always point in the same direction, no matter where you've gone.

After an hour, the old man stood up. His joints had stiffened. He would go to the police now. He would do what needed to be done. But first, he took off his coat and laid it over the dead man. It was a pointless act. Dead men don't freeze. But some gestures defy logic.

The policeman was young and nervous. He asked questions, which the old man patiently answered. No, he didn't know the dead man. No, he hadn't seen anyone. Yes, he came here every morning. No, nothing unusual had happened. Until today.

They took the dead man away. The gray coat returned to the old man's hands. It smelled of salt and something else. Perhaps of transience.

Three days later, an official came to his house. They had identified the deceased, he said. The old man invited him in and made tea, even though the official didn't want any. People do these things. They're part of what makes us human.

The official sat down. He opened a folder. The deceased's name was Markus Brenner, he said. Thirty-two years old. From Hamburg. He had been a journalist. For a small newspaper.

The old man nodded. He didn't ask what the man had died of. It no longer mattered.

Then the official said something that made the old man pause. They had found documents in the deceased's hotel room. Research material. The man had been working on a story. About a certain Dr. Heinrich Werther. A former university professor. Who had disappeared seven years ago.

The official looked at the old man. "Your name is Heinrich Werther," he said. There was no question.

The old man was silent for a long time. Then he took a sip of his tea. "Yes," he said finally. "That's my name." I was once a professor. Of philosophy. That was a long time ago.

The official nodded. In the deceased's papers, he said, they had found an almost finished article. About the circumstances of your disappearance. About the scandal back then. About what you were alleged to have done.

The old man put down his cup. His hand didn't tremble. "What I was alleged to have done," he repeated. An interesting way of putting it.

The official cleared his throat. The journalist, he said, had drowned. An accident, probably. He had gone swimming at night. Alcohol in his blood. The water was cold. It happens.

The old man looked out the window. You couldn't see the sea from here, but you could smell it.

It happens, he repeated quietly.

The official stood up. He had to conduct further investigations, he said. Pure routine. The old man nodded and showed him to the door.

After the official left, the old man sat down at the kitchen table again. He thought about the dead man on the beach. To the peaceful face. To the compass pointing north.

Then he opened the top drawer of the kitchen table. Inside lay a silver compass on a chain. Identical to the one the dead man had been wearing. He had bought it four days earlier. In the same shop in town where the journalist had bought his. A small irony. One of many.

The old man placed the compass on the table and examined it. The needle pointed north. Of course it did. Compasses don't lie.

People do.

S.

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