At heart, it's a hearth. Warmth tendrils out into every universe that permits it in and it sniffs out beings lacking, needing. It finds those who require a step to their next scene but have none. There, it builds a door.
The body surrounding the hearth takes on any forms that provide best-needed comfort. It may be a restaurant, a library, a root web of dark spaces where one can just be. The material is always there; space and matter shift into focus according to visitors' needs.
There is no commerce in the Commonplace. Resources are provided as need asks, and the endosteward distributes them freely. Patrons may stay as long as they need, until one itch or another pulls them back into their world (or, occasionally, a new one). The endosteward requires no payment -- only that the visitors remember this place, and the service that was done to them here.
The Commonplace is an impossibility emergent of all-possibles. You sense the strange magic of the place as you step in, but if you try to pinpoint any single object or movement incongruent with physics, you'll find none. Only a remarkable series of unlikely but plausible moments, all stacked together.
