Under the Mountain, Seeds Dream

At the edge of polar light, a door in stone exhales cold. Boot prints bloom and vanish on the snow-packed ramp. Inside, shelves of sleeping wheat lean like quiet choirs, each grain a small fist closed around July.

Barcodes blink constellations across tin envelopes. I lift a packet of millet; it rustles like distant rain. Far to the south, fields are arguing with drought, but here the kernels keep their dark, patient grammar.

Generators hum beneath the mountain's ribs, a low note holding winter in a glass bowl. When I log each accession, I hear my grandmother sifting lentils, separating pebbles from dinner.

Morning arrives as a thin blue seam at the hatch. I sign out, and the vault seals its frost-bright lips. Behind me, ten thousand harvests keep breathing slowly, practicing spring in a language older than fire.