The door opens with a creak to a room dimly lit by an eerie green glow. Badly drawn paintings line the walls— ah, so that's why he's an author. There's a sturdy wooden desk against the far wall, and a teetering stack of boardgame next to it, clearly homemade, with Santiago's name on them. A glowing portal swirls above the desk, in place of a window, green and frothing and endless. It hums and crackles, like high-voltage electric lines. There's a small bed by the desk, and a tiny painting of a tabby cat that says “Timbo”.
You step closer. On the desk, you find scattered parchment and a quill. You get the feeling that writing a letter and dropping it in the portal will send it directly to Santiago. Cold air tickles the back of your neck, a shiver runs down your spine.
EN 
ES