Niel Elvira

  The Greenhouse Late February – The Murmurs Begin The frost hadn’t entirely left the mountain town, but it was loosening its grip. The mornings still bit, sharp as cracked glass, but by noon, the air softened. In that narrow warmth, Thom eased open the windows of the old greenhouse behind the school. The hinges groaned their usual protest. He smiled faintly at the sound—comforting in its resistance. Light spilled through the dusty panes, thick and pale, like milk warming in the sun. He took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and reached for the broom leaning near the door. Dust gathered in familiar corners, and the orchids near the eastern bench sagged slightly, thirsty but resilient. As he swept, a few voices drifted in from the main building. “…maybe the arboretum will finally get someone who knows what they’re doing.” “I heard they’re shortlisting names this week.” “Thom’s been here forever. If anyone should—well.” The rest faded behind the glass. He paused,...