The Golden Compass
You have always believed that the town of Oakhaven breathed in silver and exhaled in gold, a rhythm as old as the cobblestones that crunched beneath your boots, slick with the perpetual, damp mist that rolled off the river. Your fingers, stained permanently with the dark, viscous ink of your craft, trembled only when the light failed, when the shadows lengthened and the world outside your shop...
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