In a dreary corridor, overlooked by even the more discerning rats, squats this last refuge of long-forgotten trinkets and broken baubles, the rug under which are swept the accumulated flotsam and jetsam of centuries of students, coming and going in tides. Those personal artefacts, those keepsakes they failed to keep safe, the wafting winds of misfortune have buffeted into this place and then abandoned. Save for the occasional Christmas reveler, and the caretaker on those nights when too many things went bump, it is unlikely anyone has set foot in here since flairs were the height of fashion, and, with the exception of a single, dripping, self-perpetuating lamp, flower is about the only power in this place.
