[ You stand at a white-capped hill with a bright light. Something is at the top, there—something with purpose. Something that would grant you purpose.

As you climb to the top of the hill, you realize—it is not snow that caps the land here, but rather, an impossibly large field of white flowers. There are hundreds here—no, surely thousands—and as you step through, you see the flowers spring back up as though they were never stepped on at all. These flowers are varied for the most part in terms of species—poppies and daisies are plentiful, as are anemones—but the lion's share of flowers are the roses. ]