The Seed Keepers' Last Harvest

Elena moved through the grand halls of the Vavilov Institute. Her fingers automatically straightened each seed packet. Glass-fronted cabinets lined the walls like confessionals.

The temperature hovered near freezing. Ice crystals feathered the windowpanes where bombs had shaken the frames. Each breath formed white clouds in the air.

The iron tea kettle sat empty on the wood stove. A permanent monument to their deprivation. Elena didn't look at it anymore.

Dmitri moved beside her. His steps slowed each day. Today he shuffled, his laboratory coat hanging loose on his frame.

"The potatoes require organization," he said. His voice thinned. "Winter always breaks. Eventually."

Elena nodded. She adjusted a label on a corn variety. The desiccated plant matter smell mixed with something metallic. Hunger tasted like old copper.

Dmitri clutched a folder of rice varieties. His hands trembled. He carried it everywhere now. An excuse to keep his fingers occupied.

Suddenly he staggered. The folder slipped. Elena spun, reaching out before he could fall.

His weight sagged against her. Light as a husk. She guided him to the chair near the stove.

"Rest," she said. "I'll complete your rounds."

Dmitri waved her off. "The seeds require careful cultivation."

His gaze drifted to the glass cabinets. Their hollow-eyed faces reflected back at them. Neither spoke the truth aloud.

Elena hesitated. Then she returned to work. Her thumb rubbed against her index finger. A subconscious search for seed texture.

From the corner of her eye, she watched him. His chest barely moved. Each breath seemed a victory.

The iron kettle remained empty on the wood stove. Cold iron in a freezing room.

Elena straightened another packet. Her hands wouldn't stop trembling.