It's a large room, but it feels a little claustrophobic, like the ceiling is too low. It's cold, and fairly dark and dingy, but not without life (good life, not creepy life). It's furnished mostly with old, embellished wood furniture, the kind with faded, musty smelling, but well-loved upholstery. The decorations are mostly mirrors and sconces, simple decorations against an ornate but faded wallpaper.
It's a sunny day, but the trees filter out most of the light, like twilight. The trees are tall, with medium-sized trunks, and no branches until about 50 feet up them, and then the trees have large, leafy canopies. The trees are some kind of pine.
It's a thin, well-traveled path, visible, but it still manages to be covered in grass. It's straight through the trees.
It's a clear, small stream, bubbling loudly over rocks and cataracts. You could jump over it in a large leap, if you tried.
It's just a small wooden cup, carved with a knife, and well-used.
It's an old, ornate key that looks like it belongs in the room I found myself in in the beginning. It looks like it might unlock a garden gate, or a cellar door.