The dullgreen fluroescent throb of artificial light as I cross the transom. Every upstairs is a further level. A whisper of air kisses the arch of my bare foot and I bend to slip free slats of hardwood, revealing yet another stair. This access narrower and even less lit than the last. The passage littered with aged newsprint. Headlines from forgotten papers fluttering like agitated birds in the subgreen. I hear a rustle, a granular grating of stone against stone, and step backward from the secret passage. A bricksize rhomboid clatters, redounding off shelving overhead like a pachinko pellet, setting off other avalanches, wrecking surfaces, wrenching brackets free, the whole storage system collapsing in fits of tumbling slats, dust rising and boobytraps raining all 'round. Looking on the collapsed egress, I sigh. Siegfried sighs.
"At least we aren't climbing down that."
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