Atlas of Rainlight

In the seed vault beneath the city, I cradle envelopes of sleeping orchards; the air tastes of copper and damp wool, trains overhead comb the dark with their teeth.

Each label is a small geography— river names, a street, the wind’s old dialect; I imagine roots rehearsing in silence, their pale knuckles testing the soil of night.

When the power flickers, the bulbs bloom once, and I see a map made of brief thunder: a future lit by what we kept.