The door’s old oak glints in the setting sun as you swing it open.

You find yourself in an unexpected place: beside a winding stream surrounded by silver maple and leaf-shedded birch. The ground is soft and wet here. And, looking right at you, is a large, upright groundhog in a tailored waistcoat and monocle.

The groundhog speaks with an Italian accent. “Come on! Hurry! You’re already going to be late!”

You ask to be let out of the maze. You have writing to do.

He ignores you. “Good job getting here. Got yourself your first prize of the night!”

You explain that you have a limited time to write at this retreat, but he is already striding off.

“We don’t get this place all night, you understand? It’s for others, later. We just got a window. And you’re at the end of it.”

As you try to keep up with his pace, you listen as he talks about your next reward. Apparently you are close to a trove of useful valuables, but finding it sounds complicated as he talks and talks about schedules and syllabi at length and without any context. He seems to be giving tips for thriving at an event of some sort that will happen tonight.

You find yourself at a crossroads in the deep woods. The light is fading and there are three paths to choose from. Each path has a word stamped into the bare, soft soil. But which word is the right one? Which leads to the treasure?

You look down at the groundhog: he has vanished. You are alone.