The Golden Compass
The glass was not merely a window in the administrative office of the St. Jude’s Institute for the Chronically Unwell, but a membrane, a thin and trembling skin separating the ordered world of forms and files from the raw, howling void beyond. Elias Thorne stood before it, his reflection a ghostly overlay on the pane, a man composed of gray wool and quiet desperation. He was the Head of...
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