*shrug* Don't ask me, I just write the stuff.
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There is a window. There is a door. Two flights of stairs lead upward to unlit hallways. In the center of one wall, there is a huge stone fireplace. There are shelves, many of them, all filled with books. There are chairs, four of them, in a semi-circle facing the fireplace. There is a small table with two more chairs beside it in more or less the center of the room. There is a bell hanging from one wall with a woven tapestry bellpull.
The room is quiet, musty with the scent of old books and old leather. The rug is thick, covering most of the floor, stopping just short of the bookcases and shelves, going nearly to the flat stone that forms the base of the fireplace, done in muted, dark tones. The window, which is slender and tall, is near-covered by the heavy dark green curtains hung on either side.
The door is locked. The stairs lead to twin hallways that seem unwelcoming, full of shadows that grow thicker with each step, until the blackness seems to swallow the rest of the hall. The window is not barred, but it is narrow, unlikely to allow an adult to slip through one pane.
There is music playing somewhere, off in another room. A piano and a violin, from the sounds of it, are together attempting a familiar, haunting tune. There are people somewhere, footsteps heard briefly outside the locked door, a burst of laughter from deep within the building, a flicker of movement as a gardener walks by at the right distance to be visible from the third floor. The house that holds this room is not empty...
...but sitting in the room, knees drawn up to your chest, arms wrapped around your legs, eyes half-closed as you stare at the coals that are all that remains of the fire, you can't help but feel alone.
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