Seedline: Roots of the City

The city smelled of rain and resin that morning, but the pocket of soil behind the shipping containers had its own weather. Sera dug between the roots of a volunteer fig, fingers numb from the light drizzle, and felt the cool give of earth the way technicians learn the hum of machines — by touch. Above her the neon facades of Midtown Loop threw shifting maps across the wet pavement; below, under an old rusted bench, a worm turned like a tiny compass. She loved that worm as if it were a compass.

She had built her life in interfaces. By day she was a junior systems admin for a microgrid company, reset passwords and nudged failing nodes back to life. By night she tended the garden on the roof of the community center: a patchwork of wooden boxes and salvaged hydroponics rigs where Mr. Basu, with his thinning silver hair and steady hands, taught anyone who would listen how to coax plants out of dust. Today Basu watched from under the canopy of an umbrella, the collar of his coat damp and his breath a soft steam, and Sera felt the urgency thrumming in the space between one instruction and the next.

Her AR headset buzzed against the inside of her skull. A soft translucent window unfolded in her vision: 'ATRIUM: SEEDLINE — CLOSED BETA INVITE.' The letters spun and resolved into a single line: 'Limited participation: Seedline Public Competitions. Prize: BloomGrant. Eligibility: linked community nodes. Local node: Midland Atrium. Begin in 48:00.'

Sera blinked rain off her lashes and watched the HUD overlay settle onto the bench wood, mapping the garden's root paths into pale lines that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. She'd known of Atrium — everyone in the city would, now — the augmented-layer urban-sim that blended public data with persistent game mechanics, where horticulture was a currency and green spaces were contested assets. But this invite was different: the prize was tangible, a city-backed grant that would fund protected green spaces for a year. 'Five thousand BloomGrant credits,' the HUD said, small and impartial. Sera's jaw made a sound she hadn't heard before: not a cry but a decision.

Mr. Basu leaned forward and spoke without looking up. 'You always did have that stubborn thing in you. Are you going to let them take the fig?'

Sera felt earth under her nails and the city in her ears; she could taste wet paper and possibility. 'No,' she said. The HUD folded into her view like a pocket closed around a seed. An option pulsed: 'ACCEPT QUEST — SAVE LOCAL NODE.' Her finger hovered. Outside, the Loop kept moving like a current she could never stop. Inside the bench's shadow the worm turned again, and Sera pressed accept.