The library's door opens with slow reverence. Books of every shape and size sit on shelves of dark wood, intricate designs carved into the sides. Candles line the shelves, their flame warm and flickering and definitely a fire hazard.
The floor is covered with blankets and pillows, woolly and comfortable, inviting you to melt into them. You notice someone left six, hand-bound short stories open on the pillows, all written by Santiago, ready to be read.
And there's an all-too-thick stack of papers in a corner, a red x mark on each. You shudder. The dreaded rejections, piled proudly in the corner for some reason. What a weirdo.
EN 
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