The Golden Compass
The fog does not lift so much as it retreats, a slow and deliberate exhalation of grey mist that pulls back from the edges of the pier to reveal the skeletal hull of the boat, a rusted thing that seems less like a vessel and more like a wound in the water. You stand there, your hands clasped behind your back, feeling the cold dampness of the morning soak through the fabric of your coat, a...
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