Night Shift in the Seed Vault

Under the mountain, the air tastes of copper and snowmelt. I clock in where winter is shelved in numbered drawers. Each packet whispers a field that no map remembers. The fluorescent hum keeps time with distant ice.

Outside, April arrives as rain on permafrost. Inside, barley sleeps in silver paper, dream-tight. I hold a rye kernel to the lamp; it shines like a small tooth. Somewhere a river is relearning its own name.

My gloves smell of peat, tin, and old apples. I stamp dates beside countries that no longer agree. The scanner blinks green, a shy northern light. Even silence here has roots curling toward warmth.

When dawn leans blue against the tunnel mouth, I lock the vault and carry one sunflower seed in my pocket. Not for planting yet, only for the weight of tomorrow. A bright comma, waiting for the rest of the sentence.