Greenhouse at Platform Nine

Before the first train, the station breathes in glass, a greenhouse stitched between steel ribs and rain. Fern fronds hold a thin gold of morning, while the loudspeaker clears its throat like thunder far away.

Commuters arrive carrying weather on their coats, small storms of wool, perfume, wet paper. Their footsteps ripple the tiled floor, and every puddle keeps a brief, trembling sky.

A child presses her palm to the orchid house, fog blooming where her hand forgets its shape. Behind the pane, a moth opens and closes a pair of wings the color of old maps.

When the train finally enters, wind and iron, petals shiver but do not fall. The doors part like a sentence beginning, and we board with leaves reflected in our faces.