Leaf Hall smells like wet stone and tomato stems. Dr. Imani Cole is already at the long bench, hair in a wrap that has survived worse mornings. Her hands hover over the LED board without touching it yet.

“Grower,” she says, not unkind. “Talk to me like you mean it. A dust storm is not a wind you argue with. It is a photon famine. Plants eat three meals: light, carbon dioxide, water. Skip the light and the other two become expensive decorations.”

On the main screen, a curve of sunshine sags. A smaller screen shows PAR—photosynthetically active radiation, the wavelengths leaves actually use, not the pretty ones humans like in postcards. The number is already ruder than the sky looks.

A row of dwarf tomatoes holds itself like a choir that has not been told the song. Condensation makes tiny islands on the high pane. Oskar hates those islands when they drip in the wrong tray. Imani loves them when they run to catchment. You are supposed to know the difference before you love anything.

Oskar Voss, the tech, has a tablet glued to a clip. A tiny painted tomato grins from one corner, like a postcard from a garden that had bees. Oskar mutters, “Glass is taking a tan it does not want.”

Imani glances at you. “Three honest options. We ask GROVE for the light curve and plan lamps plus a clean. We crack a little Mars air because Mars is famous for carbon dioxide. Or we drown the trays ‘before the weather’ like a nervous aunt. You don’t have to be loud. You have to be right.”

You hook a socked foot under the bench so you do not bounce in the light gravity when you lean. The greenhouse is a long bubble of pressure and patience. Outside is not a snack.

“Four hours is a long recess and a very short famine,” Imani adds. “Dust does not care that you are eleven-going-on-professional. Dust cares about glass. Be the person who cares about the same things.”