The Pale Mist
The roof of the manor did not collapse; it dissolved. One moment, the slate tiles were resting in their precise, historical alignment, holding back the October rain. The next, the structure simply ceased to adhere to the laws of gravity and geometry. There was no crash, no groan of twisting timber. It was a silent exhalation, a surrender of matter into a fine, gray powder that drifted upward...
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