The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A bunch of calm sheep are grazing around a quiet, rural farm surrounded by rolling hills and low stone walls, their wool fluffy in the morning dew. The air's pretty crisp and cool, with a faint scent of wet earth and freshly cut grass. Like, an old wooden plow is somehow steadily moving on its own across the field, the metal blade cutting through the soil with a soft crunching sound, despite being completely unattached to any horse or tractor. The stillness of the air is broken only by the distant calls of birds and the creaking of the old farm gate.