The Golden Compass
The bread was still warm when the sky split. It sat on the table, a golden loaf, its crust crisp and smelling of yeast and earth. Elara did not smell the ozone. She did not hear the thunder. She only felt the weight of the silence before the scream. Her mother stood by the window. The glass was dark, reflecting the face of a woman who had forgotten how to breathe. Behind the glass, the village...
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