The room's temperature is slightly cool, almost brisk. I am lying on a simple, unadorned, wooden bed. There is a small lamp and clock on the matching nightstand to my right. The walls are devoid of any pictures or paintings.
The forest starts off spread out, with mainly bushes guarding the path. Further in, the density of the forest increases, populated with a myriad of birches, poplars, evergreens and a few pine trees. Bushes, leaves and old pine needles litter the ground, with ancient moss patches laid out sporadically amidst the foliage. Surprisingly, the path and surrounding forest is well lit with beams of sunshine spreading through the canopy.
The well-travelled path comfortably holds two people astride as it meanders between the ever-watchful gaze of the trees that guard it.
It is a mild-mannered brook, not large enough to be considered a river. Like a little child, it bubbles gleefully over the countless stones and rocks, with no care to its destination.
The aluminum canteen is covered in material similar to that of army-style denim. The black cap has a beaded chain attached to it, that at one point secured it to the container, but is now broken. It appears to contain a stale, remnant of water.
The key is old, its brass surfaced tarnished over the years. The head of the key is in the shape of a three-leaf clover.