Greenhouse in Orbit

A retired satellite hums like a beehive, its panels folded into a quiet awning. Inside, I unspool seed packets as if they were small flags of a lost nation.

The soil is a thin ribbon of dark, coaxed from composted manuals and suits. I press basil into the drift of it, watch it hold like a memory with weight.

Earth rises once a day, a slow blue breath. I water with thawed ice from the radiator, each drop a clear apology for the rusted orbit we still keep.

When leaves unfurl, they do not ask for gravity. They listen for a voice I can't transmit, and answer with the soft, green push of something choosing to stay.