The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Umm, a worn, old-fashioned keyhole-shaped door lies flat on the ground, somehow serving as a perfectly functioning, miniature pond, complete with a few drifting water lilies and a small family of frogs lazily catching flies. Like, the surrounding area's a barren, dry scrubland, with withered, dead bushes stretching as far as the eye can see, and a lone, scrawny tree in the distance appears to be...somehow knitting a long, uneven scarf from its own twisted, thorny branches. The air's hot and still, with a dry, earthy smell. A hawk circles lazily overhead.