A cold mist clings to the ground as you stand at the edge of a forgotten meadow. The last light of dusk drains from the sky, leaving only bruised purple clouds. Your breath fogs in the still air, and the only sound is the distant trickle of water. A single weeping willow looms ahead, its long branches trailing into a dark pool like mourning hair.

You feel an inexplicable pull toward that tree, as if it remembers you. The air around it seems thicker, humming with a quiet sorrow. Something glints beneath the willow's shadow—perhaps a stone, perhaps a lost object. Your heart pounds, uncertain whether this place offers solace or danger.