In the absence of a dehumidifier, moisture seeps in through the wood. All manner of useless journals, manuscripts, diagrams melt into a unified gray mush peering up from the floor like the faces of lost little children trapped under a sheet of ice at winter time. A thin note, a clipping, trash kept too long survives - a slim piece of undamaged paper which simply reads "Translyvania."
This is the only truly legible scribbling in the entire room. The hour's getting late. It's unclear how long the room has been in this state. Even design choices built into the architecture itself have faded, and fade more with every minute. It's unclear how long this room has been here, when it was made, by who and for what purpose.

It's getting darker. It's getting darker faster. The windows are invisible. It's so dark that the darkness cannot be seen. There may not even be windows at all. In fact, maybe there are no windows. This is a windowless room with sepia walls. The floor is close and it is cold. Closer still. The floor is wider than it once was and there is a coldness emanating from beneath it. The room is totally dark.
There is no glint in the distance. There is nothing like a glint approaching. There is no movement, only cold, dark vastness expanding forever.