Two grand wooden doors stand before you. A plaque of worn, unpolished brass adorns the top of the doorframe. You see "The Archives" inscribed upon it.
You notice yourself reaching for the handles, though you know how bad an idea it would be to enter. As if puppeteered, your actions not wholly your own, the doors part as your hands push upon them, opening to a seemingly endless expanse of impossibly tall shelves. The room reaches far out into a dense fog, making the space feel truly boundless. You cannot see more than a few hundered meters into the room.
The lighting is dim, but warm. Everything made of old dark wood, with the occasional brass or bronze accents. Antique would definitely be one way to describe it.
A small desk waits quietly for you, not too far from the doors. Dust peacefully rests upon its surfaces, undisturbed for possibly decades, and despite its more-than-apparent age, a lamp still emits a warm, soft glow upon the documents that inhabit the desk, as well as a clearly broken tape recorder.