The metal takes the form of a winter tree which spreads its branches across the wall in front of you, behind the desk. Its branches are adorned with golden flowers, candles with wax dripping like melting snow.
The candles cast a warm glow over the papers which litter the desk. You pick one up and stare for a moment at the florid handwriting.
You pick up a simple feather quill from its place in the ink pot before you. After a small pause you make an attempt to add your thoughts to the page you hold. The only sound you can hear is the rustling of the papers and the scratch of your quill. The feather tickles your face as you lean down to the page, and a smile graces your lips.
One by one the candles wink out and with only one small flame guiding you, you place the quill down and leave the desk.