One of the reasons I love Flux so much is that it doesn’t prompt like everything else, and definitely not like Stable Diffusion. Prompts are all little stories; poems to the gods of the latent space. Anyway, here’s the prompt:

An ancient cemetery buried deep within a gnarled forest of dead trees. Wrought iron fences lean in haphazard broken lines. The air is still and heavy, thick with the scent of moss and decay. Leaning gravestones jut from the earth at crooked angles, their inscriptions long eroded by centuries of rain and grief. The moon hangs low and hollow through the twisted branches, its light fractured by webs of fog that drift like slow ghosts, it does little to pierce the darkness of the jet black night sky. Roots coil around broken tombs as though trying to reclaim the dead beneath, and crows, black and silent, watch from the skeletal canopy above. The silence here is complete, but not empty; it hums faintly, like a secret too long held.

The forest itself seems awake, its branches creaking with whispers that rise and fade without wind. A young widow in a pale green dress aproaches, she moves carefully, her lantern flickering as if afraid to burn too bright. The earth shudders with her every step, damp soil sinking beneath her feet as though something below stirs in answer. The shadows shift with intelligence, forming faces, reaching hands, and somewhere in the darkness, her name is spoken softly by a voice she hasn’t heard since childhood.

She walks among the gravestones, her pale dress brushing against thorns that snag and hold as though unwilling to let her go.

The gnarled branches of a long dead tree transform into a specter of skeletal death reaching out for its next prey, fingers stretching impossibly long as they grasp for her trembling form. The air curdles around her as its touch nears, dragging her not into the earth, but into the cold abyss of her own remembered terrors.