Greenhouse Shift on the Red Plain

At dome-light, the glass hums like a held breath, outside, dust unbuttons the horizon in slow copper ribbons, and Phobos skims the roof like a thrown stone that forgot how to fall.

I walk the hydroponic aisles; basil lifts its dark wrists, tomato vines ring with tiny suns not yet warm, every leaf wears a bead of water bright as a new alphabet.

In the pump room, valves answer in measured percussion, metal, root, and pulse keeping one shared tempo; my gloves smell of iron and crushed mint, a small weather of Earth in my hands.

When morning spills thin blue through the eastern pane, I log the night: pressure stable, seedlings awake. Beyond the dome, the planet stays austere and vast, but here, green keeps practicing the future.