The room is full of book cases with wonderful and mysterious old books. It's warm but not stuffed. There's a plush sofa of skin and low tables with wonderful flowers in vases on them. The walls that show between the book cases have small paintings with motives from nature.

The forest is thick with beautiful trees with really big leaves. It's bright though, with light reflecting from the tree trunks. One blackbird is singing.

The path is clear but narrow, covered with old leaves. It must be well traveled although I can't see anybody else just now. I'm alone.

It's a natural brook, running quite fast here at this place because of small rapids. It sounds delightful. The water is clear and unvarnished. Some fish hop up to the surface from time to time.

The vessel is made of birch bark and makes me remember my maternal grandfather and the spring in a nearby forest.

It's a middle-sized, a bit rusty key that seems to open the lock of a trunk.