As I opened the black door, the smell of old books surrounded me.

I had just walked into the Sherlock Holmes Museum, and the dim lit room looked as if it had been snatched out of a tale the plaid armchair, the old telephone and the wooden pipe that was resting on a shelf, they all seemed to be unreal, but they fitted in with the rest of the furniture perfectly. I was supposed to meet a couple of my friends here, but as they were running late, I decided to look around. There werent many people, except for an old man, whose big glasses made him resemble an owl and a blond lady who was drinking a cup of tea behind the mahogany counter. The two rooms didnt look like part of a museum, because all the wooden surfaces as well as the lined walls were decorated with many pictures and trinkets, which were now lying in the shadows, never to be shone upon by the glimmering light of the sun again. The space between the walls was slightly cramped, but I was feeling very welcome, because the rooms were drowned in that particular air that made one feel at home. No noise was getting past the door, as if the house wasnt in the middle of London, but on its own quiet island. The sweet smell of strawberries reached me, and as I turned around I saw the lady from behind the counter opening a jar of jam. Apparently, I wasnt the only one who was feeling at home. Bikes were passing by, but I wasnt paying attention anymore. I sat down in the armchair and it was as if I was descending through years, falling down into time. Suddenly, I wasnt aware of my surroundings and I was lost in my thoughts. I was somewhere, where everything was in balance. There wasnt too much light, but it wasnt dark. It wasnt too cold, but it wasnt too hot either. Somewhere in the middle of this, there was the whole worlds wisdom, but it wasnt to be achieved without education. It wasnt like a ripened apple you could pick off the ground without any effort. It was the greenest apple at the top of the tree and you had to climb all the way up to the highest branch, but you could only do so using your imagination. The bells at the entrance rang in the distance and I was awakened from my meditation. My friends from the summer camp had finished their performance at the theatre, and as they walked through the door, I realized that the place of pure perfection I had sunken in was the world of literature, where one can dream and imagine without limits, and I noticed that this Museum was the proof, as the character was brought to life just by the imagination of the readers. Now I knew why I loved books.