The room is freezing. I am well covered by the thick comforter that I have tucked under my feet, arms and shoulders in my sleep as the night grew colder and colder. I am on an enormous bed; enormous because I like to have a lot of space in bed, and I sleep diagonally across it because I am tall. There are many pillows, and a book is lying face-down on one of the corners of the bed upon which I am NOT lying. I know that placing a book in this manner is bad for the spine, but I was exhausted when I finally permitted myself to put the book down and sleep.
The trees are narrow and straight and grouped thickly together. The bark of the trees is grey mostly, with patches of brown. The leafy cover is not exactly sparse, but it is not so thick as to block out all the light. It's almost autumn, and the ground is littered with leaves in beautiful colors, and moistened deadwood sprouting fungi.
The path is tramped down in the leaves, but it's not as clear as one might like. It's a footpath, and it is not easy going.
The water tumbles against rocks, carrying along some of the fallen leaves. It's pretty and clear, and not moving too swiftly to traverse. It's natural, and the rocks along the bottom are smooth and pretty from years of being washed by the waters. It smells very fresh and cool.
It's a metal canteen in an olive green pouch with a nylon strap of the same color. It was probably gotten in some army surplus or second-hand shop. It is devoid of rust, so it was well-cared for and has obviously not been here for too long. The canvas is wet and there was a salamander perched on it before I scared it off with my curiosity.
The key is bright and shiny and silver. It has a lavender ribbon threaded through the eyelet, and it looks like it could open any number of things. Mostly it looks like a pristine and new version of a very old design.