…well, not in the walls, exactly, but definitely hidden away in a nook of this magnificent old building.
This is where I write now. At a heavy wooden desk in a room with marble floors and dark wood-paneled walls, and a faded Oriental rug, and two deep-set windows that also serve as my makeshift bookshelf.
I feel like I haunt this building. I’m here late into the night, after most of the patrons have left, and I see it from the inside out.
I can open doors that say “Staff Only” and walk past shelves of books older than my grandparents.
Gradually, I’m discovering some of the secrets of this place. Today I managed to get thoroughly lost and then locked in a corridor which only had one way out–an elaborate, gilded elevator that, when it finally clanked open after several nail-biting minutes, looked like it had arrived straight from the 1800s. There was an elderly, bearded man inside. I babbled something nervously–“Oh! Hi! I’ve never been in this elevator before!”–as I squinted in the dim light at the engraved buttons. He only hummed quietly and nodded, looking at me out of the corner of his eyes. “All you have to do is decide what to do with the time that is given to you,” he murmured.
Well, that’s not really what he said. But I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to find that elevator again, and therefore I cannot definitively prove that today I did not meet Gandalf. If there’s any place in Boston he’d hang out, it would be the library.