No signature. No return address.
She closed her hand around the pot, the warmth of the bloom seeping into her cold fingers. Outside, a foghorn groaned. The garden hummed on, a cemetery of memories dressed in petals. lustomic orchid garden terminal island
Lena stopped breathing.
“Terminal Island was a quarantine station once. Then a prison. Then a shipbreaking yard.” He gestured at the containers. “Now it’s the world’s only custom-genome orchid nursery. Every flower here was designed to remember something.” No signature