Aeroponic Garden

This ship harbored the world.

You can tell as you step into the colossus of a room: columns bore into the sky, an eerie glow flickering from them amid the gentle twisting of leaves. A still-functioning farmland, plants of all shapes and sizes sprout, hanging down from the ceiling and ripe for the picking. Stairways wrap themselves around cylinders, terraced plots jutting out from each landing. The size of the garden varies: you find yourself walking below acres of wheat, enough for an entire town. Or perhaps you detour among the family plots, a wooden sign denoting a child’s first garden, still stuck into the side of an aeroponic column. Trees, tall and proud, hang the wrong way; their blooms are just beginning to wither, growing long and spindling in their quest to find solid ground - now merely cracked grass beneath your boots.

The air here is fresh - not cold, not stale. Lavender and chamomile, bergamot and rosemary - you can almost breathe here. Somehow, in the hallowed halls that echo with each step of your feet, you have found life. It almost distracts you from the gentle crunching underfoot, of the shadows that dart in the peripherals.

An oasis, after all, is a paradise to be fought for.