The Golden Compass
The glass shattered not with a sound, but with a sensation, a cold, liquid shock that traveled up my arm and into the marrow of my spine before my eyes even registered the fragments flying across the table. It was a simple vase, unglazed clay, shaped like a twisted neck, something I had bought in a flea market in Lyon three years ago, a relic of a life I thought I had buried. Now it was dead,...
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