I have been here before. But I cannot recognize it. It is chilly, and a breeze wafts across my exposed face. It is too dark to see, but I sense the warmth of others around me.
The forest is a warm green. The red floor is carpeted thickly with pine needles. Sunlight drifts down between the limbs of the trees, illuminating particles of dust.
The path is clear and soft beneath my feet. It must be well-traveled although I see no footprints in the dust.
A stream bubbles from a spring beneath a boulder. It moves swiftly. The water is the clearest water I have ever seen. I bend and scoop some in my cupped palms. It is cool and tastes sweeter than honey.
The piece of pottery is half buried in soft mud. It is very old and cracked in places. Lines and symbols I have never seen before are shown in faded black and red paint.
The key is one of those very old ones, black and heavy. It is decorated ornately with fine vines and leaves. It must unlock some enormous door in a very old house.