The Golden Compass

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2026-08-22 02:13:13 -

The elm trees in the square were dying, their leaves turning a sickly, translucent yellow that looked less like autumn and more like a bruise spreading across the sky, and I watched them from the window of my cramped room in the boarding house on Miller’s Lane, thinking how much easier it would be to simply walk into the fog and let the city swallow me whole. It was 1893, and the air in London...

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