Atrium Seed Vault

At noon the abandoned mall breathes through broken skylights, rain strings silver harp wires across the food court, ferns climb the escalator teeth one green rung at a time, and pigeons turn the chandelier into a weather vane.

In the old arcade, cabinets sleep with mouths of static, I press a seed packet where coins once vanished, sunflower, fennel, bitter orange - small sealed comets, their paper skins whispering of orchards not yet named.

Night pools in the tile, black as ink in a fountain pen, we plant by headlamp, knees wet, laughing quietly, each trowel stroke a soft percussion on the concrete's ribs, each breath a cloud rehearsing tomorrow's air.

By spring, roots will read the map beneath this city, finding old pipes, forgotten cables, veins of rain, and through the cracked glass roof, stalks will lift their lanterns, teaching this hollow place the long vowel of return.