In the silent corridors of a forgotten library, the air carries a specific, heavy scent—a mixture of decomposing lignin, drying glue, and the stillness of undisturbed time. While a modern digital archive is a weightless cloud of data, an abandoned collection of books is a physical graveyard of thought. Here, knowledge possesses mass and volume. Each volume on the shelf is a frozen conversation, a labor of years bound in leather or cloth, now surrendering slowly to the patient erosion of humidity and dust. These spaces remind us that ideas, much like the people who conceive them, are subject to the laws of entropy; if they are not touched, aired,…