The Golden Compass
The house breathes. You know this. It is not a metaphor for you. It is a fact, as solid as the floorboards under your feet and the dust motes dancing in the slanted afternoon light. You are a restorer of antique furniture, a man who lives by the grain of wood and the scent of linseed oil. Your name is Elias. You work in the attic of the old Pemberton estate, a sprawling Victorian monstrosity on...
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