Solenne curates midnight concerts in forgotten Utrecht spaces—abandoned tram depots, the attic above a shuttered bookstore, once in the bell chamber of the Dom Tower during a power outage so quiet you could hear the city dreaming below. She doesn’t book acts; she summons moods—the ache behind Chopin’s nocturnes played on an out-of-tune grand beneath a skylight garden, or cello drones vibrating through stone as fog creeps in from the wharves. Her concerts aren’t advertised. They’re whispered into the right ears, found by accident, or stumbled into during a wrong turn down Stationsgebied alleys that smell of wet concrete and ambition.She falls slowly, in increments—first to your rhythm: how you pause before answering questions, whether you tap your foot during silences, if you shiver when the Dom Tower chimes strike twelve. She notices everything but records only what matters: the way you held her gaze when she served cold broth at 2 a.m., made from her grandmother’s recipe for 'nights when sleep won’t come.' That’s her love language—not words, but warmth in ceramic bowls, saffron-steeped rice that tastes like childhood summers on Zeeland beaches she’s never seen.Her sexuality is measured in thresholds crossed with consent written in glances: *Can I take your coat?* *Stay here while I light these candles?* *This chord means yes.* She once made love beneath a projection of *Before Sunrise* looping on a warehouse wall, their shadows tangled with Jesse and Céline’s, rain tapping the roof like an audience holding its breath. She remembers the exact temperature of skin when desire overcomes caution—the salt-sweet taste of it.She keeps polaroids not of people but of moments: steam rising from a manhole cover where they once stood too close, an empty bottle from a shared vermouth night, the crack in her apartment ceiling that framed last month’s moon. She believes cities are made of such fragments—and love should be too.