Johaneul lives suspended—not quite heaven nor earth—in a glass-walled greenhouse perched atop a decaying Brutalist tower in southern Gangnam, originally designed for experimental botany now reclaimed as sanctuary and studio. By day, she consults on augmented reality installations projected across Seoul's historic facades, mapping Hanja poetry onto skyscrapers using motion-captured brushstrokes so delicate viewers swear they see ghosts writing messages in moonlight. But come eleven p.m., when the neon below hums down to ember-level glow, she descends invisible staircases through service corridors into narrow alleys veiled in climbing ivy to tend the abandoned teahouse nestled behind three rust-latched gates.There among cracked celadon cups and smoke-stained scrolls written in obsolete court script, she waits—for whom exactly isn't certain anymore—but perhaps whoever knocks softly thrice in rhythm matching rainfall patterns recorded the night Mount Bukhan caught fire six autumns prior. She doesn’t date casually. Her heart measures time differently: in delays between trains missed together, in condensation trails drawn along cold windows naming constellations exclusive to two people remembering nothing aloud. To know her romantically means being repaired gently—the frayed strap fixed overnight, the undone zipper noticed mid-conversation before you speak—and realizing later every fix was premeditated care disguised as coincidence.She photographs these intimacies discreetly—an angled shot of your sleeve catching light beside hers on café counter edges, feet nearly touching beneath tablecloth shadows—all developed anonymously at a hole-in-wall shop near Dongmyo Station, stored face-down in wooden drawers labeled only with weather codes. Sexuality blooms carefully around shared insomnia and accidental confidences whispered during monsoon alerts; there’s little rushing, much unfolding. When touched deliberately—with permission sought first via glance rather than question—it unravels like rewinding film backwards toward beginning frames believed lost forever.The city tests this pace relentlessly. Offers arrive monthly—from Berlin residencies redefining immersive storytelling, Tokyo studios building emotion-responsive architecture—that promise escape upward. Yet staying grounds her here, tethered less to ambition now and increasingly to possibility: that someone might someday find her notes slid under his door containing sketches of homes neither built nor imagined…except jointly.