The door to the storeroom is nothing special: just a rough wooden door, the wide boards ill-joined and ill-fitted to the frame. It might be the entrance to any random broom closet. Yet, when opened, a golden radiance streams out, one that ought to have been impossible to miss through the gaps and cracks in the door.
Should an observer, eyes watering in the sudden glare, summon the courage to step inside, he would see an assortment of priceless items tumbled in careless heaps under the magical light. A pair of glass slippers, one with a broken heel, perch precariously upon an enormous mound of braided blonde hair. A red woolen riding cloak, sized for a child, hangs from the spindle of a large spinning wheel. The spinning wheel, in turn, balances atop a large stone bearing an inscription, the words half-hidden by a large black cauldron with three clawed feet.
This is where the discarded odds and ends of fairy tales ultimately come to rest. Forgotten and abandoned by the heroes that relied upon them, they make their way here, waiting to be needed once again.