The Golden Compass
The mercury in the glass tube shattered not with a sound, but with a silence so profound it seemed to suck the air from the room. I watched the silver liquid pool on the velvet mat of the instrument table, a cold, indifferent puddle reflecting the gaslight above. It was a Tuesday in November, the kind of heavy, industrial dampness that settled into the bones of the town of Oakhaven, a place...
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