Baba Yaga crouches at the lip of a yawning open grave inside a deep cavern. Tall vertical walls loom upward, lined with glistening stalactites and damp moss. The grave is freshly disturbed: earth scattered, a weathered coffin lid flung aside, a dark void yawning beneath. She wears a patchwork shawl and ragged fur trim, her gray hair streaming and eyes bright with cunning. In one gnarly hand she holds a lantern that sputters amber comic book halftone light, casting dotted textures across slick rock, bone fragments, and the coffin edges. Her other hand steadies herself on the grave rim, fingers knobby and calloused. Bioluminescent fungi cling to crevices, sending pale teal specks into the gloom. Drips echo in the still air as water beads travel down mineral veins. A thin beam from above isolates her silhouette, heightening vertical scale and the perilous, polished stillness of the scene

The image shows a woman sitting in a cave, holding a lantern in one hand and a casket in the other. She is surrounded by bones and plants, and the background is dark.