A small child, around seven years old, looked up at the looming mahogany doors to enter Mr. Lidemson's Library, easily one of the largest buildings in Southern Manhattan, maybe even all of New York, or so it seemed. The building was the sort of place you expected to be in a storybook. The walls, easily 50 feet tall, and nearly 45 feet wide, were a light beige color, worn down by year's and year's of wind and rain. The roof was shingled loosely, like teeth just hanging by a thread, before you yanked them out and got a dollar in exchange for the tooth under your pillow. This does not sound so magical, but what really made the place so wonderfully unique and beautiful were the doors.

They were made of a heavy mahogany wood, and were each at least 20 feet tall. They had the most wonderful touch, a brass knocked the size of a dinner plate, and because they were so unused, they gleaned a shiny, brassy yellow, reflecting the sunlight off into brilliant beams of light, either enthralling and delighting the child, or, in some cases, blinding the child. This, no doubt, became quite a problem with several children, who had to explain to their parents just why they actually couldn't pay better attention, do to the fact that they were blinded.

Ana, the young girl, was greatly excited to be going into the place that many children had never made it into. Perhaps it was because Ana was so incredibly intellectually fascinated with everything that she was so eager to stray from the children's library just across the street, to see what adventures lay for her ain the adult world.