Cold and raging thunderstorm were muted by the bright, warm and peaceful ambience of the old library into a muttering cry. Lots of pumpkin scented candles – masking the musty smell of the oak floors – were scattered around like stars in every corner, on window sills and footstools, basking the room in a dim orangey glow and fluttering shadows. Intricate spider webs decorated the cracked pine wood shelves and the mouldy roof. The shelves, some tilting and unaligned, were strained by the weight of the thick books. Thin layer of dust covered the flowery letters on each spine. Flipping the hardcovers open would present characters of a language long forgotten, magical words that would drift up as whispers. The hushed slow voices overpowers the rain rattling against the icy windows, beckoning to be heard. Causing the imagination to run wild, to worlds far beyond the comfort of known human reality.
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