Rooftop Herbarium at 3 A.M.

The elevator opens like a held breath, and the roof receives me with metal rain and wind. Rows of basil shiver in plastic constellations, small green tongues tasting the sodium light.

Below, the hospital glows through its own sleepless bones. Up here, I water mint with a red kettle, watch steam leave the vents in slow white ribbons, as if the building itself were learning to pray.

A moth lands on my wrist, pale as folded gauze, then lifts, then circles the marigolds again. Somewhere a monitor keeps its patient metronome; somewhere a child turns over and keeps dreaming.

By dawn the leaves are jeweled with rooftop weather, and the city begins its bright machinery. I pocket the scent of rosemary and wet soil, carry it downstairs like a quiet permission.