He leaned on the old door frame, exhausted before the day had even begun. He looked at the room lined with overstuffed bookshelves, careful not to press his weight against the aging leaded paint, long-pealing off its support and accumulating in conspicuous piles between the weakened floorboards. His affected, rigid posture created the air of a sentry, as though he were sent to guard the room before him. In front of him were bookshelves that held books and photographs that floated above scribbled captions.
