The room is cold, with a cool breeze from a slightly open window, smelling of rain on the wind and the garden below. The floor is stone, while the bed is rosewood-- high and soft, with gauzy curtains and posts carved with patterns of rose-thorns, pine needles, and aspen leaves. The morning light of a winter's day falls on the chair by the window; wooden, with a woven blanket of pale ivory draped across it, waiting for someone to sit and look out across the garden and the forest.

It must be the forest outside of the window. It is dark-- the clouds above are heavy with rain, or perhaps even snow, with the chill in the air. The trees are mostly pines, taller than normal, perhaps, but filling the area with a rich, wonderful smell that evokes half-hidden memories.

The path is narrow, but clear-- a thin, winding trail leading deeper into the forest. The path seems still and abandoned for the moment, with only the occasional distant voice of a bird breaking the silence.

It is a thin stream, quickly moving, with a few small twists in its path. The water is icy cold and clear, perhaps snowmelt from the mountains, and it whispers gently as it runs over the stones of the streambed.

It is a small, pottery cup without a handle, cool to the touch. The sides are sculpted and painted to resemble wood, and the inside is moss green, with patches of smooth obsidian-like black. Perhaps it is a teacup, as a faint herbal smell still remains about it.

It is a small, worn, wooden key, very old. It seems like it might be the key to an equally worn and wooden chest, with fading carving around the edges, that one might keep letters in, or personal treasures of nature that touch the heart.