Greenhouse in the Radio Tower

The antenna is a skeleton of thunder, wrapped in ivy that drinks the static. Through cracked panes, tomatoes blush as if remembering a former sun.

In the control room, a rusted dial still points toward a vanished frequency. Wind turns the pages of a logbook, each entry a small weather in the dust.

At night, moths orbit the bulbs like satellites losing their maps. The soil is warm with old electricity, and the plants hum in the language of rain.