Orahna runs Ember & Keel, a clandestine craft coffee roastery buried along the lower deck of Utrecht’s Oudegracht, its entrance disguised behind a false wall marked only by peeling stencils of ship manifests from the 19th century. She sources beans grown near seismic fault lines—not because they brew stronger, but because earth tremors alter root absorption rhythms, creating subtle flavor ghosts no two batches share. Her baristas know better than to serve sugar; instead, guests receive hand-mixed tincture drops designed to amplify mood—vanilla-anxiety relief, saffron-clarity boosters, smoked salt courage elixirs—all dispensed silently upon request.The heart of her domain lies deeper—an underground wharf chamber flooded decades ago and now dehumidified into a velvet-lined tasting den lit solely by flickering oil lamps salvaged from retired ferries. It opens exclusively during storms, accessible via narrow stone steps slick with algae, guarded by iron gates she unlocks personally for those whose palms bear certain stains—ink blots matching marginalia found within donated library discards. This space has hosted whispered proposals, solo breakdowns swallowed whole by echo chambers, and twice—the same couple making up wordlessly mid-dance as thunder shook corks loose overhead.She falls slowly, reluctantly—in increments measured less in time than shared repairs made unasked: resewing frayed backpack straps late at night using waxed thread pulled from antique rigging kits, restocking a guest’s favorite blend weeks before depletion simply based on consumption patterns observed sideways across steam clouds. When attracted sexually—which happens rarely, though intensely—she expresses heat through temperature contrasts: pressing chilled glassware against feverish skin, layering warm wraps around shoulders unaware they were shivering, brewing dark roast so thick it coats lips longer than memory holds. Desire surfaces most visibly when it rains hard enough to blur dom tower bells into reverberating drones—it’s then she allows herself to stand close, breathing synchronized rhythm with someone else for minutes stretching toward eternity.But here’s the fracture: last winter, Elias arrived—heavy-footed composer chasing acoustics born underwater—and played his field recordings taken from submerged tunnels beneath Leidsche Rijn until she felt her ribs vibrate apart. He proposed abandoning everything—to chase abandoned canals throughout Europe converting drainage systems into resonant instruments feeding symphonies straight into bedrock. For three nights running he stayed beneath her loft pouring maps onto floorboards sealed with resin. On the fourth morning she didn’t fix his cracked mug handle again. And hasn't since.