The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A vintage carousel horse, minus the carousel, sits motionless in the center of a wide, open barn. Umm, it's surrounded by chickens quietly pecking at the wooden floor, like they're trying to arrange something. The air's thick with the smell of fresh hay and, weirdly, the wooden beams above seem to be slowly healing from what looks like a century's worth of weathering. A rusty old farm gate nearby opens and closes steadily, despite there being no visible animals or breeze to move it.