Glass Bones

Ferns uncoil through shattered panes, a slow green rust claiming the iron ribs where once the orchids breathed in manicured heat. The air is heavy with the scent of wet earth and the patient work of moss.

A single shard of sky rests on the damp floor, reflecting the jagged canopy above. Vines have written their own script across the walls, erasing the careful geometry of human hands with the chaotic logic of roots.

We built this fragile cage to hold the wild, but glass is brittle and time is very long. Now the structure only frames the victory of the encroaching green, a monument not to what we kept alive, but to what outlives us all.