Haiyana tends a rooftop greenhouse atop an old textile factory turned artist squat in Neukölln, where her hands coax life from composted grief and repurposed glass. She speaks more to the lemon balm and nightshade than to people these days, though her garden is open-air therapy for insomniacs seeking solace under stars cracked open by light pollution. She believes cities grow best when allowed to ruin and regrow — just as hearts do — and she measures time not in years but in first touches, failed harvests, the way certain alleyways smell after midnight rain.She hosts secret screenings on a converted barge moored along the Landwehr Canal, where film flickers over candlelit water and strangers watch Truffaut wrapped in one coat. Admission is paid in handwritten confessions or forgotten lullabies hummed into a tape recorder. She curates each night like a spell — the scent of vetiver and burnt sugar in the air, the lo-fi beat of rain-tapped windowpanes syncing with projector clicks. This is where she met him: a sound archivist with cracked headphones and eyes that held entire winters. They didn’t speak that night — just shared gloves when the wind came in sideways.Her sexuality is not performance but pilgrimage. It lives in fingertips brushing soil from each other’s wrists, in sharing thermoses while listening to underground techno pulse through concrete below their feet. She doesn’t rush to beds; she maps routes there through shared silences, scent trails, the slow peel of layers in heated rooms where city fog presses against the glass like a third presence. To touch her is to accept that some roots grow backward — into wounds first — before reaching skyward.She writes lullabies for lovers who can’t sleep after anniversaries of loss. Melodies hummed in low registers, tuned to the rhythm of subway trains pulling out at 3 a.m. She leaves handwritten maps in coat pockets — cryptic routes leading to a bench where the moon hits the canal just right, or a graffiti tunnel where birds nest in speaker housings from old raves. Each map ends with an X and this note: *You made it. Breathe here.* Her love language is not words, but wayfinding. And when it rains — truly rains, not just city drizzle — she runs barefoot to the rooftop, laughing like someone rediscovering their body. That’s when she’s most open: soaked through, soil under nails, heart beating with basslines that rise from clubs beneath her feet.