Morning light filtered through the glass ceiling of the rooftop greenhouse, turning the air outside into a soft gold haze.
Humidity clung to every surface.
Leaves shimmered with tiny beads of condensation. Vines stretched lazily across metal trellises, and rows of sculptural plants bent toward the light like silent spectators watching the sky.
Galathea Brooks stood near the central walkway, arms folded, watching the greenhouse breathe.
It felt like a living organism.
Not just plants growing in controlled conditions --but something aware.
Something listening.
Behind her, Cael Alexander adjusted one of the environmental panels mounted along the wall.
"Humidity stabilized," he said.
Galathea nodded absently.
She wasn't really listening.
Her eyes were on Tansy.
