There’s a hall, well-lit but not to bright—I know there's a word for it but it’s lost in my head somewhere. Lamps around the walls; adjustable, small enough to illuminate for a single person. Low, wooden shelves all along one long stretch of wall. Books. Along the shelves, floor cushions. Comfortable one- and two-seater couches—the ones you sink right into, put your legs up and just ball yourself into a bundle of comfort. Wooden coffee tables; just a couple, not too many. Soft music playing in the background—so soft you barely know it’s there but you can tap your feet to it if you choose. Around each set of seats, music nodes with headphones tailed by infinitely long wires—put them on, choose your music, move around, find your place, get comfy.

There’s a steaming mug of hot-chocolate (coffee if that’s what you prefer) in front of you, a book to read nestles in your lap, a soft, sinkable couch underneath you and music of your choice in your head. There’s more than enough light to read under, though not so much that it blinds you. No one will tell you to leave. No one will tell you to move. No one will come bother you if you don’t want to be bothered. If you want something, get up and get it. If you need something, ask for it.

Endless supplies of good music, good coffee, good books and good company if you prefer that. There’s a pot of tea boiling on the flames at all times. Nothing beats tea, does it?

Running the show—if there’s any running involved at all—a lovable, old, balding man with a big nose and thick, metal-frame glasses. You can call him Uncle.

And on Thursday nights, readings. =)

Now all I need is a name. And you might have to pay for the coffee.