The room is a little chilly. It has wooden floors and yellow walls. There is a fireplace with a small fire in it, but it hasn't started to warm up the room yet. The room is decorated with a wooden four-poster bed and a small watercolor of a country road on one wall.
The forest is thick and dark. It is full of giant green-black evergreens that almost block out the sun. The ground underneath the trees is covered in a blanket of needles that have fallen from them.
The path leading through the forest is narrow and twisty. Although it is easy to follow if I keep my eyes on it, if I look into the distance its twists and turns make it disappear from my sight.
The water flows through a fast-moving stream. The stream flows in almost a straight line that it, not man, has cut through the forest. The water is clear and cold for the most part. But where rocks stick up out of the middle of the stream and along the banks it has formed foam from the force of the water as it rushes along the rocks.
It is a clay pot with a broken handle. The pot is old and cracks are beginning to form around the body. The clay is a worn-out beige color. It is shaped so that it fits the curve of my palm perfectly.
The key is an old, rusted-metal skeleton key. There are only three prongs on the end that goes into the lock. The first and the last are of the same length, but the middle one is shorter. The handle at the other end of the key is made of three interlocking circles.