The door creaks as it opens slowly beneath your hand.

As you take one, two steps into the dark room, magical lights flicker on softly, lightly the room around you. The blue-white light gently washes over a table, two chairs, and higher up, squares of rich wood joined together to make a ceiling. Peering into the shadows, you can see that the same squares panel the walls, and the floor. Unbidden, names float into your mind as you inspect them: oak, elm, ash, poplar, maple, hickory. Your eyes drift over a couple dark squares; cherry, and mahogany.

All of this is most easily seen in the floor beneath your feet, for all four walls are covered by bookcases of white oak that extend from the floor to a foot below the ceiling. You draw closer to them, fascinated, but are disapointed. Every single shelf is empty, coated with a thin layer of dust. When you wipe it with your finger, the dust seems to sparkle slightly, but surely it must be your imagination? As you turn away, your eyes catch sight of a spiderweb in the corner of one shelf, the silver strands shining gently from the shadows.

As you wander around, you come upon a door between the bookshelves. Its hinges are tooled with brass. A small sign is tacked to the door, written in neat, elegant handwriting:

You try the door; predictably, it is locked. Sighing, you take one last look at the magnificent room and return home, vowing to visit again in a month or two.