Before the rain, the greenhouse holds its breath. One last drop waits above a machine that has forgotten how to wake.

Then gravity decides. The drop enters the guide, gathers speed, and meets the wheel.

That small contact turns a larger promise. Teeth carry motion forward, each gear awakening the next.

At the far end, rotation becomes lift. A cam raises the stem toward the waiting light.

Nothing is automatic. Each change depends on the last: fall, contact, turn, rise.

When the flower opens, the machine disappears. What remains is its quiet idea: even the smallest cause can become a world of consequences.
