Members of a northern gardening society tend produce in glass houses that never warm above a friendly shiver. Sunlight is sifted through pale cloth to keep it thoughtful, vents breathe cold in gentle cycles, and clean snow is dusted over the beds like glittering mulch that minds its manners.
Irrigation arrives as short flurries from a converted mist line, a soft hiss that settles into a fine, even sheen. Thermometers glow a reassuring blue below zero, and a small brass bell rings whenever the room drifts warm, the note crisp as a teaspoon on ice.
Harvesters work in knit mittens with wool lined shears, catching each leaf before it can exhale a small white sigh. Crates are lined with linen that keeps its own frost, and every clipping leaves a tiny star on the air that breaks politely.
Evidence sits where you would expect it. Door handles remember neat crescents of rime, a rubber boot has polished a narrow arc in the threshold, and the bell cord shows a bright spot from winter thumbs. A pencil ledger rests on a shelf with tidy columns labeled crunch, sparkle, and serenity, the last column frequently underlined.
The results travel well. Lettuces answer the knife with a faint glassy note, cucumbers keep a starry rime along their peel, and herbs give off halos of cold that make steam from soup sit up straighter. When the bell chimes once at closing, the frost seems to listen, and the greens settle into their crates with a sound like a nod.
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