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The Lounge

You step into the next room that resembles a sort of lounge area. The furniture is broken, the fireplace has crumbled, and it looks even more torn up than the rest of the place that you have seen so far. Its pretty chilly in this room, like winter was compressed into a bottle and carelessly poured everywhere.
You reach down and pick up a ragged, grey blanket that was lying on the ground, feeling the scratchy fabric rub against your fingers as you trace it's rough edge. You flip it over and find a small, carefully embroidered patch in the corner, letters spelling out the word Lucida. You gently fold it and put it into your bag, thinking you could possibly fix it when you get back home.
You look at the broken chairs, and then find a small sketchbook made from worn fabric and thread hidden amongst the wreckage.
You carefully open it, finding pages upon pages of sketches and notes filling every blank spot the book could have had. They aren't bad sketches either, whoever drew them was pretty good. After checking a few more pages, you close the sketchbook and gently slip it into your bag. Hopefully it won't fall apart in there.