Apiary Above Ward C

On the roof of Ward C, the hives give off warm breath, winter leaning hard against the glass stairwell, and every honeycomb lit from within like a chapel window held in two careful hands.

Nurses step out between alarms and moonrise, still carrying iodine, coffee, and names. Bees orbit their sleeves, not as threat but rumor, a low gold chord tuning the air above the vents.

Inside, monitors flicker in tidal green, while outside the queens keep writing April in wax. A child on the sixth floor watches snowfall and wings, cannot tell which white drift is weather, which is blossom.

By dawn the city tastes faintly of clover and metal. Jars line the break room beside clipped carnations. Someone says healing has no single entrance, only small doors opening where we remember sweetness.