Glasshouse Under Platform Nine

At two a.m. the station exhales iron and rain. I unlock the greenhouse tucked behind the vending machines, where basil lifts its dark palms to fluorescent moons, and tomatoes glow like small, waiting lanterns.

Trains arrive as weather, all wind and announcements. Their doors open, and tired faces drift past the glass, brief constellations in hooded coats, while mint combs the air with cold green teeth.

I water the roots with a kettle of city runoff, listen to pipes hum under the concrete river. Somewhere above, morning is polishing its coins; down here, seedlings rehearse the color of sunrise.

By first light, commuters carry newspapers and thunder. I carry one crate of arugula up the stairwell, leaving behind the wet, breathing dark where night keeps growing leaves for the day.