You are in a corridor.
Thunder rumbles through the open window, momentarily silencing the birds hiding in the lush undergrowth. Warm, fat drops of spring rain start to fall, the soft hiss as they hit the unseen leaves complimenting distant music. There’s a fragile scent of mushroom and freshly tilled earth.
In front of you is a door labelled ‘Room For Rehabilitating’. Next to the door is a small table with a mug of steaming tea sat on it. There’s no cake.