The Wistful Saga
The roof collapses before the dawn. It is not a fire. It is a weight. The heavy oak beams, blackened by years of smoke, finally give way under the burden of the winter snow. You hear the groan first. A deep, tectonic shift in the floorboards. Then the snap. Then the silence. You lie in your bed, still, waiting for the debris to fall. It does not. The main hall is empty. The house is yours, but...
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