Subway Greenhouse

At the edge of the rail yard, a glass house hums, midnight trains breathing iron through its ribs. Inside, basil lifts its wet hands to fluorescent dawn, and every leaf wears a thin coin of condensation.

The keeper moves between rows with a lantern app, phone-light drifting like a tame firefly. He speaks in mist, in teaspoons of river water, while roots listen below, slow as cathedral bells.

Outside, commuters stitch their scarves against January, shoes striking sparks from salted platforms. Inside, tomatoes gather red weather in silence, small planets warming on green gravity.

By morning, crates roll upstairs with the newspapers: mint, dill, a rumor of summer on cardboard. The city tears open bread, coffee, headlines, never seeing the night garden folded in its hands.