Long, windswept halls stretch out as far as the eye can see, the rhythm of footsteps cutting through its gloom. Books, dusted and marred, fill the endless halls with their presence. They shake and shiver, a craving filling their pages, a yearning to be read. Darkness gives way to the barest flicker of candelight, and a thin old man, bent down so far his eyes bore into the floor, casts shadows under its light. He steps forward, his frail hand trailing across the many books in his path. “A guest.” His voice is a thousand whispers, wriggling and worming as it sails into the darkness. His bent back slowly straightens. His shadow grows long, twisting and stretching as it forms into something distinct from the man casting it as his gaze pierces into yours. “Which story would you like to read?” (Short stories I write will be posted here)