There was a room filled with empty chairs. They were ornate and finely polished, old and withering. Golden light filtered from brass and white shade lamps. A wood fire musk traveled through the room. There was no shortage of homey feeling even as the encroaching darkness of night attempted to seep in through the great bay window sheathed behind a white curtain. Yet as I entered this room, time and time again, it would always be cold, streaked with ice and chill that swept deep into my skin. No matter the measures I took to protect myself from this icy chill, would I be able to stave off the goose bumps or shivers that traveled through my body. It would always be cold in this spacious room, the immaculate moldings almost reaching the ceiling in their grandeur. I would always sit in one chair then switch to the next as if the view would change, as if the cold was only a cloud I could escape from under. The room filled with empty chairs, basked in the light of soft gold from the many lamps would always remain cold. I would never be able to feel it otherwise.