Seed Vault Nocturne

Under the mountain, drawers of winter sleep, paper envelopes whisper names in extinct weather, millet, amaranth, barley like small moons, each kernel holds a summer folded to a pin.

Outside, wind combs the black basalt ridge, aurora spills green milk across the snow, a fox writes cursive tracks between antenna masts, the sky hums like a refrigerated violin.

I slide one tray free and the room exhales metal, dust of old harvest lifts, cinnamon and rain, my gloves glow pale in the scanner light, as if I am handling tiny lanterns for unborn hands.

When thaw years come, someone will crack this silence, press one grain into mud, wait through the cold, and fields will rise, bright as reopened music, from this dark library of sleeping fire.