Woods. That is what the room feels like. It is an isolated cottage up in the north and a walk amongst the trees. It is a small, comforting piece of nature, a safe haven.
When you step in the room, the very first thing that greets you on the door is the overwhelming smell of the sheep hide. It wraps around you and invites you to move closer to its warmth. You walk past the room, listening to the creaking sound of the oak floor beneath your feet, and sink your fingers to the rough, thick fur, getting them entangled in the long curls of it.
If you have the patience and time to stand still for long enough, the smell of sheep fades and you start noticing all the other things. From the slightly opened window, you can hear the soft howling of the wind as it brushes through the nearby spruces. The cold breeze brings the familiar smell of smoke in the room. It fills every inch of it, making it feel as if you had just blown out hundreds of candles. When turning your head to the right, you can smell the distinctive scent of worn-out, brown-paged books. If you run your fingers past them, you can feel the broken spines, crinkled pages and dog-eared corners.
You are filled with unexplainable happiness as you walk around the small space and drag your fingers across everything your hands can reach. There is the old, pine-made bookshelf covered in uneven spots and splinters, smooth surface of the polished birch bed, unsteady ladders that still carry the faint smell of stain and a small plant with a moist mold and hanging leaves.
The room feels like its own world. It is rustic, unfinished and rough. But in the end, it is exactly how I want it to be. It makes me feel as if I’m sitting in the safeness of trees, far away from the problems of the noisy and busy street below me.