I've never been here before, but from the shabby furniture, the overly warm heat vent chugging out air and the thick, slightly musty smell in the room, I know I'm in eastern Europe. The furniture is of the type that was popular in the U.S. some twenty years ago.
The forest isn't old growth, but the kind of forest that has regrown in the last half century. Still, the undergrowth has grown to the point where it has nearly strangled the path and threatens to spill over onto the road from which I've come.
It's fairly narrow, but clearly visible. I suspect it is sometimes used by teenagers to come have a smoke or get drunk away from the view of prying eyes.
It's a natural river, clogged with garbage from the city. I think it must have been beautiful at one time, but I'm saddened that it is so polluted now.
It's an old wine bottle, left by some drunk who came and got himself drunk and then passed out.
The key is a rusted skeleton key. I wonder how long it has been sitting here. Perhaps it opens an old chest left around from the war. Maybe holding orders from a German military post.