There’s a hill up on a mountain. The mountain’s completely natural of course, but not the hill. I’m not sure if it’s man-made or not, but there’s irregular cubes cut into the dirt. They must have served some purpose at some point, but now they’re just withering away on the sides on the hill.
There’s a chest up top. I’m not sure what’s in it though; it’s locked, and I can’t break it open.
Besides the chest is a gravestone. I’m almost certain no one’s buried there though. A strange, empty grave. I never tried digging it up though.
Sometimes when I hang out near the hill, I’ll hear a voice. Usually it’s asking for help, but I can’t hear what it’s asking for. The voice is jumbled and I can’t tell the gender or age, or even species. Is it even speaking English? Or maybe it’s just bad at pronunciation? Perhaps something is distorting the voice?
It likes to ramble though, and likes listening to me ramble like I am now. I visit sometimes, and we’d just ramble at each other, never understanding the other, but still appreciate the other’s company. I’ve tried teaching it English but that didn’t work. Maybe it hears my English as something else too.
There’s a tree on the hill. Just that one. One of its branches is unnaturally long, twisted and thick. I like to sit on that branch under the shade of the tree. I’d make a joke sometimes. Then the voice wound laugh. It wouldn’t get it, but still manages to laugh with genuine joy.