Atrium with Mosslight

The mall is a ribcage of glass holding its own weather; ferns unzip along the escalator tracks, and the air smells of pennies rinsed by rain.

Kiosks sleep under lacework ivy, price tags lift like thin wings; a skylight holds a slow, green pulse as if the building learns to breathe.

In the food court, a lone fountain cups the sky it can no longer sell; puddles gather the soft applause of dripping banners and birds.

I walk the concourse like a quiet tenant, my footsteps a tuning fork for dust; somewhere in the ceiling, sparrows stitch new constellations into the silence.