You leave the damper open because sharing is a story they put on posters.

Hearth gets thick. Your thoughts get simple and wrong. Buttons become interesting. Warnings become background. Imani’s voice comes from a long hallway even though she is a meter of tomato away.

They close it without you, later, after Oskar does two jobs at once. You come back to yourself with a mask hissing and a headache that will make a story if you tell it honestly.

The storm passes. The crop is… all right-ish, because the greenhouse kept some of its recipe. The people were the ones who drank the plant food. Ground—Earth, on a delay—wants medical checks. The salad is smaller. Your confidence should be too.

Lina puts her helmet down harder than necessary. “CO2 is a plant meal and a people poison in the same molecule. Split. Systems. Please.”

You log it. You do not feel like a grower. You feel like a warning light that learned to walk.

THE END

What you learned: the same carbon dioxide that plants eat in the light makes people sleepy, stubborn, and sure. Greenhouse air and hab air are cousins, not twins. Enrich the leaves from a tank. Do not throw the tank at the kitchen.