Station Seed Library

At the closed train station, rain combs the rusted clock. Pigeons lift like torn envelopes from the rafters. Between Platform Two and silence, volunteers stack seed jars. Each label glows under a headlamp: millet, fennel, dusk.

We trade weather stories over a folding table, hands smelling of soil and copper coins. Someone brings beans saved from a grandmother's balcony; someone else unwraps pepper seeds black as wet ink.

Outside, the city scrolls its sodium-yellow river, buses sigh, neon gutters in puddles. Inside, tiny futures click against glass like hail beginning far beyond the hills.

When midnight shutters the ticket windows, we leave with pockets warm from paper packets. Spring is a rumor we carry in both palms, small enough to lose, bright enough to plant.