The Great Library

Running from preceding generations, the children of today had created a nostalgic air about Bentham Library. Mysterious and haunting, no one dared to step inside the library save for the librarian and the old man who went in with old, faded books and came out with a cup of tea and a couple feathers hovering over his tweed jacket. Outside, the place looked as if a storm had passed over and stripped away all of its character, leaving it pale and gothic to all who saw it; this made it all the more unapproachable. Great big doors guarded the lobby, littered with dusty velvet chairs and pillow cases that must have run away from their pillows, columns of ivory and marble wound their way up to the roof, where they held against the many storms that threatened to tear the library to the ground. Gargling fountains that have been broken for years shouted to the lines and piles of books that sat on their shelves and lay on the floor, desks with their lamps that used to be friendly now take up space and no longer shine their warm light for midnight readers. Creaking metal staircases that haven’t fulfilled their purpose still wait in silent hope that they may feel footsteps once more, chandlers sit still, longingly looking down on isles of forgotten stories and knowledge.