The door wasn't all that hidden, really.

It was the only bookshelf in the room, and most of the books were empty journals; purchased for their beauty and never used. The books that were thin in the spines and warped through the pages clustered around one broad book. It was easy to pull on. The latch was stiff- but by then you were invested. The shelf gave way. It opened into the passage, an invitation, as if it bowed with prim politeness to welcome you.

The room was a mess. Not the abandoned-tea-cups kind, or the infested-with-moths kind, but the cluttered with research kind. The layered with dust and disarray kind. Bright paint faded on the walls, but the floor remained sturdy. Desk after desk, folding tables and hardy chairs held all sorts of things. A globe sat open. There was not wine inside, but a diagram of the earth's core. An astrolabe stood on a lamp stand, wide as your arm, etched with constellations on its rings. You stepped on a set of dice. You were not so enthused about that as everything else.

This was the room of a worldbuilder, someone possessed with knowing the world as it is to weave fantasies.

You found one forgotten mug. Cheap, a soft green, the handle broken on the bottom.

Welcome to my Haven.