DX01: SINGULARITY 08709

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Umm, a few old, beat-up cowbells are hung from rusty metal hooks on a weathered wooden beam in a cramped, dingy tack room. It's kinda warm in here, with late morning sun streaming through grimy windows, casting a warm glow over all the dusty old saddles and tack. Like, the air's pretty stale and smells of old leather and sweat, but for some reason, one of those cowbells keeps swinging back and forth, like it's being rung, but nothing's touching it. A bunch of old riding gloves and whips are just lying scattered around the floor, like they were just dropped there.