The room is a cavern of cold emotion; blues and greys assault the walls and the light is that of a Siberian morning. The only furnishings are the ones I can see in my head, and I recognize this place to be my own personal hell.
The forest is a frozen collection of Popsicle sticks. The trees are tall and stubbly and the needles rain down upon me like a tropical storm. Though they were once undoubtedly lush, the trees are now nearly barren and the Siberian light from the room extends to this forest, leaving me awash in its icy stare.
A pencil-thin path leads me into this forest. It is flanked by hardened planks of ice and snow and any deviation from the path would undoubtedly lead one forever sliding on its slightly-sloped surface. I cannot tell how well-travelled it is, though I doubt many could navigate it successfully.
I am surprised when I come upon a tiny river, given the frozen landscape around me. The river is little more than a trickle of heavenly tears as it shimmers gloriously in the light. It seems decidedly unnatural, given my surroundings, though no one but God could make something so beautiful. The water is cool, crisp, and refreshingly clean.
A crudely fashioned mug lies abandoned on the bank of the river. It stands out against the winter-whiteness of the scene. Dirt caked at the base of the mug slips onto the ground and creates a dome-like mound.
The key I find straddling the tightrope-ness of the path is, like the mug I left behind, rough-hewn and weathered. It looks like the key to a grand chest or the door of the shack of a giant. Inscribed are the the letters "FLG" and it is made of dulled bronze.