Description Of A Palace From The Point Of View Of An Unintended Guest

 O my god this place is huge. Rivulets of velvet caress my barefoot walk, paper walls with painted birds ornate the corridors I stalk. Thousands books of glass shine on wooden shelves while just as many candles paint their letters on the walls. So birds and words fly around together like a flock saluting winter, and gorgeous staves of chisel'd wood prevent them all from running off. In front of each window a different orchid, and on their sides yet different flowers, spray their colours cast their shadows on thick soft carpets, as if untouched.
 Tables and chairs, boxes and sofas, crackling fireplaces and the most perfect temperature. The first thing I do is get comfy. Down with the titsticks, and the bra goes off. Next falls the hoodie, followed by a couple of hairpins. They bounce off the floor and slide beneath a massive carved dark wood closet. Forget about them, this place is so full of things I'll sure find something better, in case I even ever need anything anymore. On with the next room. Even better than the last. The palace runs in a circle, but a storm of invisible super-fast elves rearranges the rooms in the blink of an eye, without notice or apparent meaning. When the sofa I'm lying on disappears and is replaced with a (though comfy) wooden chair, I finally complain. In return, three sofas like the one I had appear around me: one to the left, one to the right, and one in place of the chair again. I smile, this place has a mind. I compliment the elves for their solicitude, and go onwards. This room is a greenhouse. Three massive windows that cover up almost a whole wall shed coloured specks of light on various shades of green. Arrays of shelves and floating vases host the most exotic ensemble of plants, flowers, bulbs, stems, petals, leaves and roots I'd ever seen. A plant whose leaves are nowhere to be seen sprouts flowers from its roots, right on top of my head. The flowers smell like soap that smells like cinnamon. To my right an orchid grows green flowers, shaped like tremendously sensuous lips which in fact I kiss.
 The flavour is somewhere between cherry and sesam bread.
 At the center of the palace lies a small square patch of green, a fountain at its middle, with a bunch of immense glicine plants that climb up the walls and disappear somewhere over the rooftop, flowering too far away to be seen or smelled by me.
 At some point I receive a glimpse of a thought: this must all be too nice to be true. But I touch a few things around (and slap myself in the face as an extra measure) and I conclude I'm not dreaming. This is true. But then the most natural explanation follows: this place wasn't built for me.
 Am I so special to justify all this? I ask the walls. And a portrait, once stuck in its frame, climbs out and replies (some World War I English baron) "Sure you are, ma'am. You were never cause for its being built in the first place, but you are the only reason it's still living."
 I nod, unsure of what to ask next, and of the meaning of this revelation. I look at an orchid, and it still looks the same. Same lights, same scents, and same tickling of elven feet bolting 'round the room looking for slight rearrangements or radical messups to do.
 "Yes" Baron of Dimmleshire confirms "you are somewhat special. The way you look at these things keeps them alive, and that is wonderful. You make them feel loved. You give them attention, and care, and respect, and understanding. And even though you come in here with your own secret list of fears and troubles (buried deeply in your pockets), this palace trusts you and is already changing. You should in fact know, my dear, that the elves are yours. You let them in by entering the front door; they've always been with you."
 It's a great deal of empty spaces to fill. Looks like an impossible, infinite task.
 "Nobody expects you to take it on your shoulders, and nobody expects you to complete it either. You are rather beautiful though."
 How does this relate to...
 "Never mind, never mind, I've been locked up in a frame for too long and now I see a pair of titsticks-less floppers and I go like" wooooooosh, suckling noises, and a dark shapeless mass protrudes from the frame and sucks the baron back in.
 Was that really the portrait of a nobleman? I look at it more closely, and it is now blinking. Goodbye, Baron of Dimmleshire.
 What did that even mean? I sit on another sofa, and get lost in the superb decorations that run through the ceilings. Apparently, they're being repainted as I ponder. This place wasn't built for me, and so who was it built for?
 A voice echoes through the halls and empty rooms, coming down from the crackling chimneys: "does it matter?"
 I reply, mid-tone, that it depends.
 "So, please have my ghosts". A powerful, bloodchilling scream bursts from somewhere behind me. I startle and get up, while the sofa gets replaced with a masterwork jade bench. My heart racing, I scream in return but the escalation stops there. In front of me, some three metres away, a short, blue ethereal figure looks at me with fiery, angry eyes. I know she can't hurt me, but apparently this place is haunted. It can hurt the palace? Does it matter? So long as I know where is the exit, and I didn't forget around too many of my own things, I can't take too much damage from a collapse. But as time passes... But I resolve not to worry excessively. Come what may. I examine the ghost more closely.
 It's a ladyghost. Short hair, now made of green light (but for some reason I know they used to be of a rather dark shade of brown), small, cracked lips, big and gentle brown eyes, now distorted in the most disturbing expression I've ever seen. A haunting scream, of sufferance more than anger, still lingers in the air all around. I know that running away wouldn't help. This ghost has suffered, and is here because it still does.
 The portraits on the walls around us nod slowly, as if confirming or underlining my thoughts.
 I used to be a guest just like you are, she explains. And I wasn't the first either. A few new rooms were built for me, but the spirit of the place was already here and strong. This place is darker than it seems, you know, this place has secrets it won't give up easily, unless it wants to hurt you.
 This palace doesn't get easily angry, but there's some sort of underlying sadness that makes it threaten to crumble down to dust anytime. Most walls are made of paper or glass, and there is no visible staircase. Yet screams come up the cellars and the windows say there's an upper floor. Albeit ghost, I still can't see what's there. The palace doesn't give its keys that way. These walls can be crossed only when he agrees to it.
 A marzipan vase, holding a beautiful purple orchid, approaches us bouncing merrily and, when it's about between the two of us, spits up the orchid and starts talking. (The orchid disappears in mid-air. Thank you elves.) "And by the way I was serious about your floppers, they're..." And with one more suckling sound, the vase is stuffed full with a bonsai popped out of nowhere and thus rendered once more silent.
 Is this the palace talking?
 "Yes it is. Voicing its sufferance, its distress and its deepest happiness in all the same way. This place needs you in some very deep way. You may end up ghost, some day, but it's worth it."
 How can it be worth it?
 "Can't explain. It is."
 I look at the ghost straight in her eyes, and something tells me at least she's not lying.
 Still, I liked the Baron more. A fellow Englishman, to say the least.