Kaela composes not just music—but moods—for bodies in motion through Berlin's winter nights. From her cluttered atelier tucked behind a defunct cinema in Prenzlauer Berg, she builds sonic architectures using analog modular synths wired together like fragile constellations. Each patch cable is chosen for its tonal memory; every oscillator tuned to resonate with absence or longing. By day, she teaches experimental audio design to skeptical students near Schönhauser Allee, returning home at dusk already composing the evening’s ambient score in her head—a heartbeat pulse beneath reverb-streaked delays.Her true performances happen elsewhere—in forgotten courtyards where flickering projectors cast home-movies on wet brick walls, or in the secret heart of a retrofitted photo booth deep within Rosenthaler Strasse’s underground arts grid. That cramped space glows amber now, transformed into a speakeasy accessible via Morse-code knock. Inside, Kaela hosts intimate concerts for strangers who whisper confessions instead of orders—one glass per revelation—and once, someone stayed until morning crying softly to a loop titled *What We Didn’t Say At S-Bahn Stations*. She records those voices too, filtered later into harmonics no one can trace.Romance enters sideways in her world—not announced, but felt first as interference in frequency. It began years ago during a thunderstorm atop Teufelsberg, repairing gear mid-lightning strike when another artist appeared holding out a dry battery pack wordlessly—he stood there soaked, grinning wildly, then vanished down the hill before she could speak. Since then, rainy nights crackle differently in her circuits. Her body remembers humidity clinging to cotton shirts stuck fast against chests, breath fogging shared headphones playing unreleased tracks meant for touchpoints: bass drops timed precisely with brushing knuckles, crescendos synced to hesitant forehead touches. Desire lives encrypted in these moments—to receive her full mix requires surrendering your own rhythm willingly.She photographs nothing digital. After certain nights—the kind lit gold under falling sleet, laughter echoing off U-Bahnhof tiles—she slips away quietly and develops Polaroids in red-lit darkness, hiding them inside hollow books labeled according to weather conditions (*Blizzard Kiss*, *Steam Window Promise*, *Rain-Smeared Goodbye*). These images remain unshared, though sometimes placed carefully beside fresh compositions as reference points: visual waveforms guiding timbre shifts toward joy or grief. To know Kaela fully means accepting you might hear yourself echoed months later in some distant club melody drifting past midnight windows.