Watering empty rows at 4am

I'm walking the greenhouse at this hour, the dark making everything a rumour. My hands find the hose and it's suddenly clear: I keep watering beds where the cucumbers betrayed me last season, row after row of nothing, and the tap makes that same patient sound against the soil. Not a dream exactly, but the closest thing to one I've had in weeks — a small, empty promise I make to dirt every single morning.