The room is cool enough to see my own breath, but I am warmly wrapped in an enormous quilt. I am laying on a once bright red sofa, worn with age. The floor is wooden and scattered with tapestry rugs. The only other furnishing is a coffee tavle with a stone sculpture of a mother and child. I smell coffee brewing in another room.
The terrain is rocky, but the forest is thickly populated with pine and aspen trees. It is a bright, but cold morning.
The path is more of an animal trail. It seems to be the only way through the trees. The rocks slip away underfoot if one is not careful.
The water is swiftly moving and ice cold. Gazing upstream I can see that it flows from a mountain spring down a steep slope. It is level here however. The water itself is beautifully clear, and it switches back and descends to a spot where a deer drinks, unaware it is being watched.
It is a wooden cup, hand-carved and still wearing bark on the outside. It is perfectly smooth on the inside.
It is a silver piano tuning key.