Hurrying down the winding streets of London towards the nearest Air Raid Shelter, most people pass the little library sandwiched between a bakery and a post office without even noticing the gilded letters on the swinging sign proudly proclaiming “Amar's Bookshop”. Should one happen to be moving slow enough to catch a peek through the gaps in the boarded up windows, one would make out the glow of orange light spilling into the street, warm and reaching out to passers-by. And should, by sheer chance, one's curiosity be piqued enough by the thought of a tiny bookshop in East London still open while the air raid sirens blare their banshee's cry, one might even have the boldness to push open the green door, little bell tinkling their arrival, and step into the light.

You arrive in the Foyer, the ground floor of this bookshop, and look around. The walls are covered floor to ceiling with bookshelves, each one crammed with a kaleidoscope of coloured books, their prices written in a messy scrawl on a white label on their spines. The street-facing windows have been boarded up so that only narrow slices of the night are visible, and even these seem to shrink away from the warm glow of the room. There is a cashier's desk by the entrance, but there is no one around. The orange light that permeates the foyer comes not from this room, you realise, but from a set of wooden stairs leading downwards. If you strain, you can make out the sound of a scratchy vinyl record player dutifully humming the tune of Moonlight Serenade, the sweet song accompanied by the sounds of crinkling pages and a crackling hearth, which drift upwards to invite you on down. Obediently, you accept.

The first thing you notice as you emerge into the soft, flickering light of the downstairs room is how deceptively large the area you find yourself in is, far more so than the tiny bookstore up above would have had you believe. The second thing you notice is how equally tight it is. It seems that despite having a sizeable underground section, the space is barely sufficient to hold Amar's collection, and every available nook and cranny has been press-ganged into service and filled with something, be it books, chairs or decorations. Any walkways are barely large enough for a single person to pass through, and most of the ceiling is low enough that tall people are forced to stoop. Far from feeling cramped though, this has created a sense of snugness within the library: everything has its place, and everything fits into exactly the right amount of space.

The stairs lead into a central area (the Great Hall, you presume) with a blessedly high ceiling, from which dangles a large, crystal chandelier boasting electric lights. This room is large enough to squeeze in 30 people on top of the not inconsiderable number of comfortable armchairs, drinking tables, reclined seats, futons, and of course, the record player, that already sprawl over this inviting space. There is a semi-circular librarian's desk on one wall, currently unoccupied. The floor is covered in expensive looking Persian rugs, and every available space on the walls is decorated with colourful silken streamers, posters encouraging you to do your duty for King and Country, landscape paintings depicting vibrant vistas, and even a few black and white photographs of a smiling Indian man standing before a wide array of varied environments: Cairo, the Taj Mahal, the Australian Outback, Niagara Falls. A fireplace on one wall holds a roaring fire within, sending orange light dancing across the room's current Guests: a few mute readers snuggled into their armchairs and absorbed in their books; a worried couple huddled by the fire, throwing nervous glances back towards the street level; and a well dressed man in a corner avoiding eye contact with the others.

On either side of the central chamber spreads narrow, low-roofed corridors that split into row after row of squashed bookcases filled to the brim with well-worn books in every language and from every part of the world. They are mostly fiction, although there are a few travel guides and cookbooks sprinkled among them for good measure, and all of them are completely unorganised. A few Guests wanders these aisles, or else pick a book at random and head deeper into the library to find a quiet cubby hole within which to read.

Suddenly, the ground vibrates with a distant boom that gently rattles the crystal chandelier and causes the record player to miss a beat. The electric bulbs dim momentarily, and the couple jump, but the majority of the inhabitants continue their business, not even pausing their page-turning for the crinkling chandelier to quieten down. A small dribble of dust drifts lazily from the ceiling and twirls in the air, dancing on its eddies and currents.

[Do you see now why you are here?] a saccharine voice whispers into your minds. There is no direction indicated by the telepathic message, and it takes you a long few seconds of looking around before your eyes trail up to the chandelier. There, coiled around its arching arms (no, not arms, branches) is the Serpent of the Pears, golden slits peering down at you from underneath an orange beret. [The when and the how are not so well understood, but what is certain is that this Library is doomed. A fire is coming, and only you possess the power to stop it and save the knowledge within.]

[Are you ready for your task?]

Amar Singh (he/him): Amar is the proud owner of Amar's Bookshop. In his youth, one can imagine (and be confirmed by the pictures all over the walls) a proud, tall figure who tread the paths most people would only ever read about in Atlases. Age may have claimed much of that height, but the pride in Amar's eyes is undimmed by the decades. Amar is an older Indian man with a well-kept grey beard and a particular fondness for colourful turbans. He can usually be found hobbling down the many aisles of his library, probably hiding from his wife, enthusiastically striking up conversations with unwary customers, or pulling books out from the cases at random to stroke reverently, before carefully placing them back on the wrong shelf. Current status: Deceased

Priya Singh (she/her): Priya is Amar's long-standing travel companion, co-owner, and better half. She hails from a wealthy Indian family and had the privilege of being university educated, graduating top of her class in Engineering. She was incredibly well-read even before she met Amar, and dazzled him with her startling knowledge of the world before having travelled anywhere. They had been a perfect match from day one, but that was so many years ago. In recent years she's grown short with him, and is often overheard yelling at him for not picking up rations or missing dinner to read. Even though they aren't making many sales lately, she's often found by the cash register keeping meticulous track of their finances, looking through their inventory for valuable books to sell second-hand, and coming up with year 6 maths problems. Current status: Deceased

The Blitz

Blitz! The musical

World War 2