The Glass Atrium

The glass is fractured, webbed with frost and age, where once the orchids breathed in humid air. Now bindweed spirals up the rusted frames, a quiet reclamation in the damp.

Beneath the shattered dome, the ferns uncurl, ignoring how the painted iron peels. They drink the rain that filters through the cracks, and flourish in the shadow of neglect.

A solitary vine, with crimson veins, has breached the door that swollen wood holds fast. It whispers to the wind of green empires, that rise when human hands forget to tend.