Antique bookshelves line two walls of the musty office. Behind me, the door, before me, a nearly-bare wall. An empty desk faces me, vacant drawers already open, its chair resting on its side. Two paintings hang behind the desk, perfectly straight. They seem to be mildly yellowed pages of some old biology tome, the brown ink of the descriptions of the pictured plants fades into the page.

The chandelier, a single bulb encased in a green orb, draws quite a bit of attention. The ball is decorated with gold, and fine lines intertwine across its surface. A small gold hinge graces the bottom. The decoration lends a dappled effect to the rest of the office, heavy with gorgeous books bound in leather- a multitude of age-dulled colors.

I step forward, glad that no one has removed the books. A low sound behind me draws my attention, and I turn quickly. The door is shut, and a key clicks in the old fashioned lock. I run to the door, seize the knob, ornate green and gold, but it will not budge.

How will I ever get out?