Mycelium Station

At dawn the subway yawns its metal throat, and we descend with pockets of ordinary hours. Under the tiles, rainwater remembers root-language, dripping through concrete like a soft drumline.

A violin busker lifts one note and holds it, long enough for moss to imagine a staircase. On platform nine, advertisements peel into lichen, green commas punctuating fluorescent air.

By winter, mushrooms bloom beside the third rail, pale lanterns lit by passing trains. Commuters stop checking their reflections and watch spores drift like ash that refuses to mourn.

When spring arrives, we ride through a buried orchard, branches mapped in shadow across our faces. At each stop the doors open like petals, and the city inhales what the dark has grown.