The Golden Compass
Who was the man in the glass? I asked the reflection in the frosted inspection booth, my breath fogging the pane into a grey smear. It was a question of physics, of condensation, yet the face staring back seemed to warp under the weight of twelve years in the service. The light in the shipyard office was failing, the long winter afternoon stretching thin and cold. I was Cormac Sheehy, senior...
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