The Golden Compass
The jar sits on the windowsill. It is thick glass, amber-colored, and heavy in your hands. Inside, the substance glows. It is not light, exactly. It is a hum. A low, thrumming vibration that you can feel in your teeth. You have kept it there for three years. You have told no one what it is. You have told no one why you keep it. The house is old. The walls breathe. In the winter, they contract...
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