Moss Republic

At midnight the last train exhales and leaves. Silence pools between tiled pillars. From cracked grout, moss lifts tiny green tongues, tasting the iron rain of the rails.

A maintenance lamp swings like a slow moon, painting wet concrete in amber chords. Puddles keep the ceiling upside down, each drip a metronome for roots.

Somewhere above, bakeries wake their ovens; down here fern-fronds uncurl in brake dust. They learn the language of distant thunder, the long vowel of wheels returning.

By dawn the tunnel smells of soil and sparks. Commuters pass, carrying weather in their coats. No one sees the small republic of leaves holding its bright parliament in the dark.