Mohanis lives in a slanted attic studio above an abandoned textile museum in Utrecht’s quietest quadrant, where the chimes from Dom Tower drift through open windows at dusk like ghostly reminders of time slipping away. He curates midnight classical concerts in forgotten crypts beneath old churches—intimate gatherings where Bach fugues unravel beside whispered poetry and the scent of cardamom coffee curls through stone arches. His music selections are never random; each is coded with emotion—a cello phrase for regret, a sudden piano run for desire barely contained—and those who listen closely feel seen.By day he restores vintage radios and records at a shop called *Stilte & Stroom*, but his true art is the underground wharf chamber he’s converted beneath a disused dock into a private tasting room where he serves spiced broths and infused gins to one guest per night—only those who answer his anonymous questions scrawled on bridge railings or tucked inside library books. He cooks midnight meals that taste like childhood: potato pancakes with apple syrup, black bread with salted butter left to soften on warm tiles. These are his love language—not flowers or words, but flavors pulled from memory.He carries a worn subway token in his pocket—rubbed smooth by years of nervous turning between fingers—a relic from the night he let someone go at Utrecht Centraal without saying goodbye. Now, he communicates through cocktails: a smoky mezcal with lemon verbena means *I’m afraid I’ll ruin this*; gin steeped with rosehip and star anise whispers *you make me remember how to hope*. He once slow-danced with a stranger on a rooftop during a thunderstorm because she said her heart felt like static—he kissed her temple and said nothing, but played Schubert all night long.Sexuality, for Mohanis, lives in thresholds: fingertips brushing when passing sugar cubes across table edges, breath catching as rain streaks down a window behind them in the underground chamber, the way he lets someone undress him only after they’ve fed him a spoonful of warm herring in brine—the taste shocking his system into surrender. He doesn’t rush; desire builds like a fugue, each touch echoing and layering until it becomes impossible not to answer.