The old walls crumbling as time and the elements have taken their toll on the brickwork, the mortar, the very fabric of this once stately structure. Monolithic in form, the interior a vast echoing space once filled with the proceeds of an empire long gone, now silent save for the calls of the pigeons roosting in the exposed rafters, the ironwork stained with their excrement, the acid slowly easting through the ancient metal. Light filtered through dirty, grime covered windows, slanting rays catching the dust motes that fill the still air.
In the centre of the space a pool of light from the circular central skylight illuminates the markings chalked on the hard concrete floor. A double circle within which lie strange, twisted symbols, astronomical, biblical, magical, chaotic. The lines of each symbol slightly blurred as the hand that made them shook, some palsy of fear forcing the chalk to skitter across the surface.
Central to all the figure sits, cross legged, head bowed, silent, still, the old book held tight against the chest….