"Thank you," Melanie says as he takes the book. She pulls her knees up to her chest and closes her eyes, waiting.
She's used to being read to. It takes two hands to manage a book, and they were never allowed more than one hand free during class. Any reading had to be done aloud, by the teacher. The first book Melanie actually held in her own hands was one that Miss Justineau had illicitly stuffed down the back of her wheelchair, and she'd barely had any time to enjoy it before the base was overrun.
Daniel isn't quite as good as Miss Justineau, but that's all right. The book is old, and the lighting is bad, and what he's doing is good enough. Melanie focuses on his voice, deliberately ignoring everything else, and just listens.
The first changes are subtle. There's a shift in the quality of the air into something more fresh and sharp than the stale atmosphere in the basement. Then, blades of grass begin to poke their way up from the floor, first colonizing the seam where the floor meets the wall, then rippling over the concrete like a thick, green carpet.
Things escalate from there. Cinderblock walls are replaced by stone, which is rapidly overrun with ivy and roses. The grass is joined by patches of flowers, like the ones Miss Justineau brought into the classroom to show everyone what spring really looked like: daffodils and crocuses and several riotous clumps of campion in 'every tint and hue of crimson.'
Melanie doesn't dare open her eyes yet. She can still feel the oppressive weight of ROMAC's tower over her head. "Keep reading," she urges.
no subject
She's used to being read to. It takes two hands to manage a book, and they were never allowed more than one hand free during class. Any reading had to be done aloud, by the teacher. The first book Melanie actually held in her own hands was one that Miss Justineau had illicitly stuffed down the back of her wheelchair, and she'd barely had any time to enjoy it before the base was overrun.
Daniel isn't quite as good as Miss Justineau, but that's all right. The book is old, and the lighting is bad, and what he's doing is good enough. Melanie focuses on his voice, deliberately ignoring everything else, and just listens.
The first changes are subtle. There's a shift in the quality of the air into something more fresh and sharp than the stale atmosphere in the basement. Then, blades of grass begin to poke their way up from the floor, first colonizing the seam where the floor meets the wall, then rippling over the concrete like a thick, green carpet.
Things escalate from there. Cinderblock walls are replaced by stone, which is rapidly overrun with ivy and roses. The grass is joined by patches of flowers, like the ones Miss Justineau brought into the classroom to show everyone what spring really looked like: daffodils and crocuses and several riotous clumps of campion in 'every tint and hue of crimson.'
Melanie doesn't dare open her eyes yet. She can still feel the oppressive weight of ROMAC's tower over her head. "Keep reading," she urges.