A bell rings alongside the creaking of an old door. Shelves filled with books pass through the view, seeming to be coated in a layer of dust. Strange titles with stranger covers, one appearing to be coated in a thick resin, another sizzling at the edges, and more line the bookshelves of what appears to be an old library.

Deeper in, still, there is yet more books of all shapes and sizes. From tomes to scrolls to parchments, there is a variety of different texts. Yet all seem to have their titles smudged, covered, or nonexistent. 

Strange.

Deeper still lies an array of tables and chairs, of all manner of size and shape. Some normal, some with questionable length and width, and some that seem to defy the laws of physics. 

Odd.

And yet deeper, there is a door with no handle. Opening reveals that within, there is yet more bookcases. Except, the dust on these ones seem lighter than those of the room before. As if, recently, they have been cleaned, or at least was attempted to have been.

In the center of it all sits a table and chair, dimly lit from a spot too far up above to make out its origin. 

And upon that table lies a book.







Do you approach?