Platform Greenhouse

At midnight the station exhales warm iron, and I unlock the glass cabinet beside Track Three. Inside, moonflowers lift their pale listening bells, as if the dark were water they can drink.

Announcements fall in blue sparks from the ceiling, each syllable trembling the leaves. Commuters pass like weather fronts in wool and rain, never seeing the vines map stars along the wire.

I mist the roots; a silver cloud answers, and the petals open one careful notch at a time. Far below, tunnels carry thunder and old coins, while pollen drifts like tiny lanterns over concrete.

By dawn the flowers fold their secret grammar, daylight bleaching the windows to ordinary glass. I leave a single bloom on the timetable board, a quiet white clock no train can keep.