There are places in life that become more than just locations; they become extensions of our souls. For me, it was the towering halls of my beloved college, the stone walls that whispered history, the wooden shelves lined with books that felt like old friends. In the heart of that place stood the library, my sanctuary, my second home in a city that once felt foreign but grew to cradle my deepest aspirations.
I remember the first time I stepped through those doors, the scent of parchment and aged ink filling my lungs with an almost sacred reverence. It was here that I buried myself in pages, lost in texts both ancient and modern, tracing the footsteps of thinkers who came before me. It was here that I spent my nights, pouring over words, my fingers tirelessly type, my mind alight with curiosity.
