The air in the greenhouse is thick with a strange stillness, the kind that comes before the world sleeps. Rows of carefully nurtured plants stretch toward the dim artificial light. This is it—the last chance to create something living, something beautiful, before the cryosleep capsules close for decades.

Monty Green kneels beside a patch of soil, gently pressing seeds into the earth. His hands are rough from years of survival, but there’s a tenderness in the way he tends to each plant, as if every stem is a promise for a future he might never see.

You step closer, carrying a bag of seeds you’ve scavenged from the old world. “I found these,” you say, placing them in his hands. “Figured they might survive with the rest.”

Monty looks up, a small, grateful smile tugging at his lips. “You always know how to find the best stuff,” he murmurs, brushing soil off your fingers.

Together, you map out the garden. He sketches designs on a piece of scrap paper while you arrange seedlings, arguing lightly about what should go where—sunflowers here, a patch of strawberries there. His excitement is contagious, and you can’t help but laugh when a rogue vine threatens to tangle itself around your ankle.

As night falls, the soft hum of the greenhouse lights makes the space feel cozy, almost like home. You step back and admire your work. Rows of green life stretch out before you, each plant a symbol of hope, defiance, and memory.

Monty wipes a streak of dirt from his cheek and meets your gaze. “Whatever happens out there… if we make it, I want us to plant gardens like this everywhere.”

Your heart catches at the quiet intensity in his eyes. “Then we’ll start with this one,” you whisper.

For a brief moment, the weight of the world lifts. In the middle of the last garden on Earth, you and Monty find a small slice of peace—proof that even in endings, life can bloom.