Prompt

A full-length mirror, its edges framed in blackened silver and cracked like spiderwebs, leans against the wall of a decaying conservatory. Instead of a reflection, it shows a shadowy figure standing in a parallel version of the room—identical, yet subtly warped, where the overgrown ivy creeping through the broken glass is replaced by veins of dark, crystalline growths. The room itself is a relic of forgotten opulence: a velvet chaise, once deep emerald, now bleached to a ghostly sage, sags under the weight of time, while a grand arbor window frames a view of a garden frozen in perpetual twilight—trees with bark like aged parchment, their leaves suspended mid-fall in shades of muted slate and iron. On the floor, a scattering of objects—an antique key, a pocket watch with a face but no numbers, and a single, perfectly preserved camellia—casts elongated shadows that don’t quite match their forms. The air is thick with the scent of old paper and something faintly metallic, as if the mirror isn’t just a portal, but a wound in the fabric of the room itself. The colors are a symphony of restraint: soft charcoal, faded olive, the barest hint of oxidized copper, and the cool, distant blue of a moon that never sets

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FLUX Pro

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