The Name of the Wind question

here are my personal favorites-

I COULD HEAR THE INTRUDER BREAKING INTO MY HOUSE.
Unfortunately, it was in the same instant that the demon appeared before me.
Mark of the Demon, Diana Rowland.

I SAT AT A TABLE IN MY SHADOWY KITCHEN, STARING down a bottle of Boone's Farm Hard Lemonade, when a magic fluctuation hit. My wards shivered and died, leaving my home stripped of its defenses. The TV flared into life, unnaturally loud in the empty house.

I raised my eyebrow at the bottle and bet it that another urgent bulletin was on.

The bottle lost.
Magic Bites, Ilona Andrews

I’d seen weirder things than a haunted shoe, but not many.
The Nike Pegasus sat on the office’s desk, inoffensive, colored in shades of gray, white, and orange.
Some of the laces were loosened, and a bit of dirt clung around the soles. It was the left shoe.
As for me, well...underneath my knee-length coat, I had a Glock .22 loaded with bullets carrying a
higher-than-legal steel content. A cartridge of silver ones rested in the coat’s pocket. Two athames
lay sheathed on my other hip, one silver-bladed and one iron. Stuck into my belt near them was a
wand, hand-carved oak and loaded with enough charmed gems to probably blow up the desk in the
corner if I wanted to.
To say I felt overdressed was something of an understatement.
Stormborn, Richelle Mead

"Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much
Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone, J K Rowling

The building was on fire, and it wasn't my fault
Blood Rites. Jim Butcher

I DONʹT LIKE CAGES.
I donʹt even like going to zoos. The first time I went to one, I almost had a
claustrophobic attack looking at those poor animals. I couldnʹt imagine any creature
living that way. Sometimes I even felt a little bad for criminals, condemned to life in a
cell. Iʹd certainly never expected to spend my life in one.
But lately, life seemed to be throwing me a lot of things Iʹd never expected,
because here I was, locked away.
Last Sacrifice, Richelle Mead

Tall grasses whipped against the Green Rider’s legs as he ran. He cast terrified glances over his shoulder, his breaths
harsh and ragged, and punctuated by the thud of hoofbeats behind him. He caught his toe in a hole and plunged to the
ground. Desperately he tore at grass stalks to pull himself upright and continue his flight.
And still the hoofbeats followed at a steady, measured pace, never faltering, never slowing, coming inexorably,
unrelentingly behind him.
A strangled cry of triumph erupted from the Rider’s throat as safety appeared just ahead. He hurled himself between the
rails of the fence, sprawling at his captain’s feet.
“Well, that didn’t go very well, did it?” Laren Mapstone said.
On the other side of the fence, the source of Ben’s terror gazed down at him with big brown eyes and snorted.
“And I suppose you’re pleased with yourself,” Laren told the gelding.Robin flicked his ears and shook the reins, then dropped his nose into the grass to graze.
The High King´s Tomb, Kristen Britain

I had taken plenty of time to consider the courtship of October Daye, giving it much and thorough thought.
What it would entail. How it would proceed. How the very nature of October would change each of the
essential steps, transforming a time-honored tradition into something strange and new and potentially
hazardous to my health. It was an exciting prospect.
No Sooner Met. Seanan Mcguire

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness,it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all gong direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way,-in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insistedon its being recieved, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens.

Ironically, since the attacks, the sunsets have been glorious. Outside our condo window, the sky flames like a bruised mango in vivid orange, reds, and purples. The clouds catch on fire with sunset colors, and I’m almost scared those of us caught below will catch on fire too
Angelfall, Susan Ee

And my absolute favourite-
The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts. The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed trough the trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of the night. If there had been music…but no, of curse there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained. Inside the Waystone a pair of men huddled at one corner of the bar. They drank with quiet determination, avoiding serious discussions of troubling news. In doing these they added a small, sullen silence to the lager, hollow one. it made an alloy of sorts, a counterpoint. The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened for an hour, you might begin to feel it in the wooden floor underfoot and in the rough, splintering barrels behind the bar. It was in the weight of the black stone heart that held the heat of a long-dead fire. It was in the slow back and forth of a white linen cloth rubbing along the grain of the bar. And it was in the hands of the man who stood there, polishing a stretch of mahogany that already gleamed in the lamplight. The man had true-red hair, red as flame. His eyes were dark and distant, and he moved with the subtle certainty that comes from knowing many things. The Waystone was is, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the other inside itself. It was deep and wide as autumn’s ending. It was heavy as a great river-smooth stone. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die.
The Name of the Wind, Patrick Rothfuss