Author's note: This one is actually a piece of descriptive writing, not only that but it's in second person which I avoid like the plague now.
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You walk towards a rounded door, its curves as smooth as shined marble. The ivy green paint has faded, some peeling off at the rusty hinges.
You grasp the brass handle – it's warm beneath your fingers but creaks like old bones grinding as you turn it.
You are drawn to the golden fire at the side of the room, crackling quietly to itself. The fire is heating a pot of soup that hangs lazily on the handle dozing in the warmth. The floating steam drifts to your nose. The extra pepper makes your nose curl as the bitter smell tickles your nostrils.
The warm ladle is now cradled in your fingers as you pour the thick broth onto a hot plate. Using a tarnished spoon that's lost its sparkle, you taste the creamy creation, the black herbs tickling your tongue.
You turn at the sound of an elderly man humming to himself. He is as small as a child , his legs carelessly swinging off the chair. What is left of his grey hair is carefully combed back but some wires still stand out in the crowd.
Small wrinkly hands shakily control the quill he is holding creating curves and lovely loops on the page that trail endlessly, creating an intricate script as individual as one's fingerprint.