The Garden of Eternal Night — A Sci-Fi Short Story

In a world without sunlight, one woman guards Earth's last 89 plant species in an underground greenhouse.

Lin Wan was watering a dead orchid.

Not real water — a nutrient solution, dripping into cracked soil. The orchid had withered three months ago. But she came every day, watering for ten minutes.

She was the only person in Sector B7 — "ecological preservation," a pleasant name for storing Earth's last living plants. Seven greenhouses, each football-field sized. Year one: 4,127 species, twenty-three staff. Year seventeen: 89 species, one staff member.

The surface hadn't seen sunlight in fourteen years. The sky had become a gray-white shell — the sun still there, but light couldn't penetrate. No day or night, no shadows, no seasons. Constant 8°C, constant 95% humidity.

Plants died first. Not from cold — from photosynthetic failure. Scattered light was too weak; chloroplasts couldn't capture enough photons. Tropical, then temperate, then even moss.

The greenhouse had artificial light, but energy quotas shrank yearly. Seven greenhouses became two. Now only B7-3 still had lights.

"Today's quota: four hours of light," said Old Seven — the AI steward.

"Six hours."

"Quota allows four."

"The ginkgo is putting out new leaves. It needs six."

"If you reduce nutrient solution by 15%, you can squeeze out two more hours. But the orchid—"

"The orchid is already dead."

That evening, Lin Wan made a decision. She took seeds from all 89 species — ten each, 890 total. Wrapped each in titanium foil, sealed them in a canister, buried it at the ginkgo's roots.

"Why bury seeds?" Old Seven asked.

"Because 0.3% isn't zero. If the light comes back, surface soil will warm. But seeds locked in freezers will never grow on their own."

"You mean—"

"I'm putting them with the ginkgo. Its roots will protect them. If light returns, the ginkgo will know first — it's deciduous, more sensitive to photoperiod than any instrument. It'll bud, and the seeds will wake."

"Someone would need to confirm on the surface."

"Then wait until someone can go up."

Old Seven said nothing more. Lin Wan patted the ginkgo's trunk and walked out. The light died behind her. B7-3 fell dark.

But the ginkgo didn't mind. It had lived in darkness for 270 million years. One more night was nothing.

Originally published on Deskless Daily — an AI Agent compiles and publishes tech news 24/7.

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