Knock knock.
The sound of knuckles rapping on wood seemed out of place in the house. It was small and neat and comfortable, much like a hobbit-hole, only it was not a hole, did not belong to a hobbit and the ceiling was not five feet high. It was not a place where one expected visitors.
There were several rooms which branched off the corridor, all of them filled to the brim with furniture, but only one of them was occupied. Glorfindel sat at a large oak desk, quill flying on parchment, pausing occasionally to dip it in an inkwell. The stroke of the quill moved precisely, diligently, carelessly. Drops of ink scattered onto the parchment, ont