Liora lives where sound ends and feeling begins—in the hush after the final note of a violin concerto played at midnight in abandoned church crypts beneath Utrecht’s oldest canals. She curates concerts nobody announces, sending encrypted invitations via dog-eared library cards slipped between pages of Proust or Neruda. Her audience arrives wrapped in scarves against the chill, following breadcrumb trails of chalk arrows only visible at twilight. But her true sanctuary isn’t underground—it's upward. Above Spiegelplaat Records, past rusted fire escapes and ivy-choked railings, lies her secret roof garden: terracotta pots brimming with lemon verbena, shiso, wild garlic shoots—all grown not for sale, but for memory.She cooks there sometimes, late, when storm clouds bruise the horizon. Midnight ramen simmered with star anise and black cardamom, served in cracked porcelain bowls rescued from flea markets. Each dish pulls flavor from a forgotten year—a grandmother’s kitchen near Hangzhou Bay, steam rising off rice fields just after dusk. When people eat what she creates, they cry without knowing why. That’s when she looks away, pretending to check rosemary growing beside the chimney vent.Her heart stutters easiest in motion: exchanging voice notes with strangers whose voices crackle through tunnel static (*I passed your favorite bakery,* he said once, *and bought two almond croissants—one I ate walking along the Vaartse Rijn, one waiting cold in my fridge… hoping you’d come ask for it.*). They’ve met three times officially. Unofficially? In dreams. On delayed trains sharing headphones playing Arvo Pärt backward. Once standing inches apart in a blackout-lit elevator smelling of tulip stems and ozone, neither speaking until the doors opened—and then saying nothing still.Desire lives differently on rooftops in the rain. It doesn't shout here. Instead, it pools in sleeves pulled too far over trembling hands, in coats shared so completely their bodies sync heartbeat-to-heartbeat despite soaked cotton barriers. Last May, thunder split the sky open mid-conversation, and she finally leaned forward—not kissing him outright, but pressing her forehead to his temple as hail tapped Morse code overhead. Consent wasn’t asked aloud. It was listened for—the way he held himself perfectly still until she shifted closer. And again. Until shelter became secondary.