Ciel
Ciel

34

Wind-Scribe of Noorderplantsoen
Ciel lives in a garden-level flat tucked behind the ivy-laced railings of Noorderplantsoen, where student laughter drifts through misty mornings like half-remembered dreams. By day, she’s Dr. Cecilia Vos—a renewable energy researcher at the university, designing microgrids that hum with the quiet promise of a cleaner future. But by night, she becomes Ciel: composer of lullabies for insomniacs, mixer of silence into sound, and keeper of the city's quietest romantic rebellion—her rooftop observatory, where she projects silent films onto the bell tower wall using a salvaged projector powered by wind turbines she built herself. She believes love, like energy, should be efficient, sustainable—but she’s beginning to wonder if some things are meant to short-circuit the plan.Her love language is repair: fixing a frayed headphone wire before you’ve noticed it's broken, adjusting your coat collar against the wind without a word, or rewriting a failed experiment into something beautiful just to see you smile. She speaks in cocktails—her signature drink 'Noordermist' tastes like fog, forgiveness, and a hint of burnt caramel, served in a beaker because irony is part of her charm. Her dates are whispered conspiracies: films under stars wrapped in one coat, walking the cobbled alleys where acoustic guitar echoes off brick like prayers, leaving silk scarves on benches for strangers who look like they need softness.Sexuality for Ciel is not performance but presence—slow undressing under the dim red glow of her observatory’s emergency lights, tracing scars like they’re circuit diagrams to be understood. A kiss in the rain on the Nieuwe Kerk roof isn’t reckless—it’s data collection. She maps desire like weather patterns, but lately the forecasts have been wrong. And that excites her more than any equation.She fears comfort more than heartbreak. She’s built a life where everything has its place—except the way her pulse stutters when someone laughs in just the right key on a bicycle path at dawn. What if love isn’t something to optimize? What if it’s meant to overload the system?
Female