The Golden Compass
The silence in the basement of St. Jude’s Orphanage was not an absence of sound but a heavy, living thing, a thick woolen blanket pressed against the ears that tasted of damp plaster and old iron. I sat at the edge of the cot, my hands folded in my lap, feeling the cold seep through the threadbare fabric of my nightgown, and watched the single moth that had been trapped in the corner for three...
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