The rain is fierce on the canopy outside, but only a few drops make it through the leaves to trip a staccato beat on the metal of the roof. The rest trickles and pools, gathering in hollows and slipping down trunks to soak the earth. The path to the door is overgrown and disused, covered with fallen branches and vines on the outside, and tottering piles of books and sheets of loose paper on the inside. The books shift restlessly, still unused to their captivity and nervous about the ability of these walls to keep out the damp. A few eye the fire nervously, gnawing quietly in the corner on a log that might just be someone’s distant relative.