soph.

It's like an endless labyrinth, but instead of concrete walls, I'm surrounded by dark wooden bookshelves that disappear into an infinite gloom above. The aisles are narrow, suffocating. Thousands, perhaps millions of books are piled up without any apparent order: some have titles in languages ​​I don't recognize, others are completely blank, and the most unsettling are those that seem to be written in calligraphy that still feels fresh to the touch.

There are no windows, no doors, and the constant hum of yellowish fluorescent lights is the only sound that accompanies me, apart from my own footsteps on the worn carpet.