The room is large and I rise from a beige couch and examine the Victorian desk in the corner. It is a rolltop desk and is locked. There is a warm fire going in an ornate fireplace, but the room still has a bit of a chill.
Conifers dominate the dark forest, the tips of them topped with a light dusting of snow. The trees are thickly dispersed.
The path is well-traveled, and the branches have been trimmed to create a canopy along it. It is narrow, only wide enough for one person to pass through at a time.
A slow, cold trickle of a stream, rocks breaking up sheens of ice as it cascades down.
It is a plain white porcelain cup, decorated only with a blue ring around the lip. There is a chip in the lip.
The key is old and simple. It is tarnished brass, dark and spotty, but still there is a gleam to it. It looks like it is too small to unlock a door. It looks like it will fit a chest or box.