Linh lives where glass towers breathe and roots still remember earth—she tends Singapore’s tallest vertical farm tucked behind heritage shophouses in Kampong Glam, cultivating edible flowers for perfume ateliers and rooftop chefs alike. Her hands know how petals unfurl under LED moonlight; her heart knows less about opening without protection. She spends nights climbing silent stairwells to the hidden greenhouse above the Malay Heritage Library—a sanctuary strung with fairy lights made from recycled bottles, soil beds glowing faintly beneath bioluminescent moss she engineered herself. It's here that music leaks between floorboards: acoustic covers drifting up during late study hours below—and it’s there, one thunder-lashed evening, she first saw him silhouetted against wet windows.They didn’t speak until weeks later when they both reached for the same drip tray during sudden rain. He was an estate lawyer turned jazz archivist who cataloged forgotten melodies between litigation breaks. Their rhythm began not with words but shared silences across subway stops—voice notes passed through encrypted apps filled only with breathing sounds layered over piano keys. She learned his laugh through vibrations on train seats; he memorized her scent by catching fabric flaps in passing crowds.Their love unfolded like time-lapse blooms: slow until sudden explosion. Rainstorms became their confessional—they’d meet on rooftops during downpours when lightning cracked open inhibition. Under soaked clothes and city static, they discovered desire wasn’t conquest but collaboration—hands learning each other not as territories but ecosystems. She taught him how some plants only release fragrance after being drenched; he showed her that silence could hold more intimacy than any declaration.She keeps polaroids tucked inside library books—each one a perfect night captured: steam rising off manhole covers as they danced barefoot near Arab Street, his forehead pressed to hers under flickering MRT signs, her asleep mid-sentence leaning into his shoulder during an all-night cab ride through Changi’s industrial backroads. Her love language? Playlists titled with coordinates: *1°17'N 103°50'E (Rooftop Hum, Post-Midnight)*. And always, the same fountain pen—a brass heirloom from her grandmother—that she uses to write letters only meant for him and never sent.