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The greenhouse rhythm had widened. New footsteps joined its quiet pulse: Kai from Journalism crouching near the workbench, photographing seedlings for what he called an “alternative impact report.” Mrs. Nouri, the retired groundskeeper, showing Sam how to rescue storm-blighted tomatoes. Even Elias, Lara’s debate president, lingered at the doorway with conflicted eyes.

Aisha’s sensor glowed amber—moisture deficit: Level 2. Emil bent over the irrigation lines, tightening a valve, while Priya and Mrs. Nouri sparred gently about soil pH—science meeting memory. On the ledger, a new line appeared in Kai’s steady handwriting: “Elias V. — Roof reinforcement schematics, 11/3.”

At dawn, a notice appeared on the greenhouse door. Crisp, administrative violence:

“Policy 7.1: All non-curricular projects require Facilities Use Permits (see Annex A for compliance criteria). Unauthorized gatherings subject to disciplinary review.”

Annex A read like a cage: insurance waivers for “structural hazards,” certified supervisors with “quantifiable expertise,” approved materials lists that forbade repurposed fabric or salvaged wire. That afternoon, the door stayed locked.

But the students gathered anyway. Sam taught seed-saving on the steps. Leo spread wires across the pavement to demonstrate coding. Aisha stitched canvas under the fig tree. Their voices carried in the rain-washed air, drifting upward into the council chambers where Lara’s window stood open.

Marco slammed his tablet on the table. “They’re mocking us. Right outside, in violation of Policy 7.1!”

Lara watched the feed. Thirty students, circled in the courtyard, hands deep in soil and wire, books balanced on knees. No structure. No permit. Just learning.

Elias stood abruptly. “Policy 7.1 governs facilities. They’re on the sidewalks. What shall we ban next—breathing?”

The chamber stilled. Lara’s pen snapped in her hand.

Then Mateo appeared in the doorway, rain plastering his hair, blueprints under his arm. Water stains bled across the paper.
“Drain blockage,” he said, his voice level. “Library ceiling will collapse by Friday.”

“Why wasn’t this reported?” a council member gasped.

Mateo held the blueprint higher. “It was. Annex A required an engineer’s stamp. We couldn’t pay for one.”

Rain began hammering the glass.

Dusk brought the storm in full. The students huddled beneath the fig tree as water streamed off the greenhouse roof. Emil stood staring at the locked door, fists tight.

Grandfather appeared beside him, rain silvering his beard. He pressed a rusted key into Emil’s palm.
“Old boiler room. Damp, dark. But the pipes run warm.”

Emil shook his head. “We’ll lose the light. The sensors. The seedlings—”

Grandfather’s hand rested on a tomato vine forcing itself up through a crack in the pavers, leaves glistening in the rain.
“You think sunlight only comes through glass?” His eyes moved toward Priya, still teaching soil tests under a tarp, Kai filming Aisha’s stitches by torchlight. “You carried the canopy out here. That’s the forest’s strength—it travels.”

Emil’s voice trembled. “She’ll send monitors. Suspensions.”

Grandfather lifted his gaze toward the high window, where Lara’s shadow stood unmoving.
“Stone fortresses fear two things,” he murmured. “Creeping vines—and their own foundations getting wet.”

As if to answer him, a crash rolled from the library wing. Students turned. Plaster and water rained from a ceiling long ignored.

Mateo raised his blueprint. “Ceiling.”

Through the storm they saw her: Lara, sprinting toward the collapse. Gold blazer blurred by rain, not retreating to her throne but rushing to lift, to brace, to save. For a moment she was not the council’s ruler. She was a gardener, arms outstretched to protect her seedlings from drowning.

By morning, the courtyard told the truth. The library’s study corner lay drowned in plaster and rainwater. Lara’s banner sagged in tatters, its plywood core exposed. Policy notices floated sodden in the gutter.

And yet, beside the greenhouse, Mrs. Nouri’s blighted tomatoes had not only survived. They had flourished. Vines split the pavers wide, fruit swelling heavy with rain, roots drinking deep from the flood.

Emil placed the rusted key on the ledger. Then, with Mateo’s crowbar, he pried open the greenhouse lock.

Light spilled through the door.
The sensor blinked once, steady green.

The canopy had weathered the storm.
The roots had drunk their fill.