The farm station smelled like damp soil and rust.

Most people avoided it—too many reminders of the Ark, of everything that fell apart when they hit the ground. But you stayed. You always stayed.

Monty noticed.

“Careful,” he said gently as you adjusted one of the hydroponic tubes. “That one’s still cracked. If it leaks, the whole row’s done for.”

You smiled, wiping dirt from your hands onto your already-stained jacket. “Guess that makes this place officially doomed. I touched it.”

He laughed—soft, real. The kind of laugh that felt rare these days.

“Nah,” he said. “If anything, it’s better now.”

You worked side by side for hours.

Rebuilding. Replanting. Failing. Trying again.

Monty moved through the greenhouse like it was sacred ground, careful with every leaf, every seed. You saw how much it mattered to him—not just the food, but what it represented.

A future. A reason to keep going.

“You know,” he said one night, crouched beside you as you checked soil levels, “when everything went to hell… this was the only place that still made sense to me.”

You glanced at him. “Because you can fix it?”

He shook his head. “Because things grow if you take care of them.”

The words lingered between you longer than they should have.

Late nights became routine.

Dim lights. Quiet hum of systems barely holding together. Dirt under your nails that never quite came out.

One evening, exhaustion finally caught up to you. You slumped against a table, eyes half-closed.

Monty noticed immediately.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You don’t have to push yourself like this.”