There is a place, somewhere, that was once someone's home. It isn't, any longer. Before then, it had been a shadow of a bookstore. That was a long time ago, and the shadow has long since lost the thing that cast it. It goes on without it.
The interior is cramped and dark. There is light where light is needed, from no obvious source, but it mostly isn't needed. This is not a place of light and warmth. It is cold and dark and quiet, and almost every wall is lined with shelves. When the shelves had been made, they clearly had not been made to fit this many books. They are stacked, some neatly, some haphazardly, some tilted over to lie at awkward angles on the shelves, with little regard towards spatial efficiency. There are so many books they've moved to the floor in tall stacks, some of them almost half as tall as the shelves themselves. This is an achievement; they are not short shelves. In a nook between stacks, there is a small table, with three matching chairs. The table has several stacks of books, as do two of the chairs. A comfortable looking armchair sits nearby, stacks of books at its feet, but the seat entirely empty of them. Once, there was a checkout desk, where customers paid for their books, but it is gone now. It's not really clear where it went. There are two doors, nestled between the ubiquitous shelves on opposite walls. A mat for catching dirt sits under one, and the other is half-hidden away, easy to miss.
The books that fill the place come in many languages, with little regard for organization of book types or subject; maybe there had been one, once, but it's long since been forgotten. 'Forgotten' might be the best word for this place, actually. The quiet that hangs over it feels unnatural. Uncomfortable. Not like the easy silence of a beloved library, but like the unnerving silence of the grave, or the awkward silence of a dead relative's bereaved home. While there is no dust on any surface, this doesn't feel like a place that has been visited in a very long time.