Marvien lives inside a converted teak loft above a shuttered sapan wood gate in Chiang Mai’s Old City, where morning mist lingers like memory and temple bells toll beneath the breath of dawn. By day, he is an artisan coffee roaster whose blends are whispered about in hushed tones — smoky arabica kissed with tamarind, beans slow-roasted over coconut husk flames in a courtyard kiln behind his building. But by night, he becomes something else: a self-taught perfumer who distills city moments into scent, bottling the hush between market stalls after closing, the damp warmth of a lover’s neck after rain, the crisp paper tang of first handwritten notes. He doesn’t sell them — he gives one vial only to those who earn it, each labeled not with names but coordinates and times.His loft has no address number — only a chipped blue tile above the door depicting a blind lotus. Inside, light filters through rice paper screens painted faintly with constellations he memorized during sleepless nights. A hidden stairwell behind a false cabinet leads to a clandestine meditation dome he built above the night bazaar — its roof domed from recycled temple copper, its floor lined with cushions stitched together from old silk scarves. This is where he retreats to recalibrate, where he listens to the city’s nocturnal pulse, and where he first let someone else in: not with words, but by sharing a midnight meal of *khao soi* cooked over a single burner while rain slid down the dome’s seams.He communicates through voice notes sent between transit stops on his daily route — soft-spoken fragments about cloud shapes or how someone laughed too loudly at a street vendor's joke. He cooks meals at 2 AM that taste inexplicably like childhood — curried pumpkin soup that reminds him of his grandmother’s kitchen before it burned down. When touched unexpectedly, he freezes for half a breath — not from fear, but surprise that anyone noticed what was hidden beneath.His sexuality is slow-burning architecture; desire measured in proximity rather than urgency. He kissed his first lover during a city-wide power outage — lips meeting under projected film flickering across an alley wall, their bodies wrapped in one oversized coat while acoustic guitar notes floated through bamboo scaffolding above them. He believes touch should taste like recognition: fingers tracing vertebrae like Braille, palms pressed to chestbones during dawn meditation just to feel another heartbeat sync across skin.