Seed Vault Under the Station

Under the city, in tiled tunnels where trains forgot their names, we line up jars of river-silt and unlatch wintered seeds. Headlamps swing like small moons over iron ribs, and dust wakes, bright as pollen in cathedral air.

Each kernel carries a folded weather no map remembers, a July field, a grandmother's palm, the hush before rain. We soak them in warm tea made from rooftop mint, listening for the first soft click of green deciding.

Above us, traffic grinds its teeth through midnight, but down here roots practice silence in plastic trays. Tiny stems lift, pale violins tuning in the dark, drawing a dawn from water, rust, and human breath.

When morning opens the grates, light spills down in ladders. We pass the seedlings hand to hand up to the street. By noon they are balconies, windowsills, bus-stop cracks, a slow uprising of leaves against the language of concrete.