Usha wakes at 3:17 AM, not by alarm but by the silence between chimes from Dom Tower—seven notes that fall through the attic window like keys dropped down a well. Her studio, tucked above a shuttered textile archive in the Museum Quarter, smells of roasted beans and old paper. She owns Koffie & Asch, a craft roastery where patrons whisper confessions into their cups and leave coins in the 'Truth Jar' instead of tips. But her true alchemy happens after hours, when she climbs—through trapdoors, across gables—to the secret rooftop herb garden above De Plaatwereld record store. There, under constellations she names herself, she grows thyme that tastes of childhood kitchens and mint so sharp it stings like first kisses.She believes romance lives in thresholds: the moment steam rises from a cup before it’s sipped, the breath between *I could* and *I will*. Her love language is midnight cooking—dishes that resurrect lost flavors: bitter melon stew with tamarind glaze (the taste of her grandmother’s forgiveness), black garlic risotto (the night she decided to stay in Utrecht). She communicates through cocktails: a mezcal sour with ash rimmed in sugar when she’s mourning; gin infused with rooftop rosemary when she’s daring someone to stay. Her body remembers desire like rhythm: the press of warm tiles under bare feet at dawn, the way rain on zinc roofs sounds like a lover’s palm sliding down her spine.She once dated a storm chaser who wanted to follow tornadoes across the Dutch coast. He called stability a slow death. She called it sanctuary. They broke apart not in shouting, but in silence—her standing at the train station with two paper-wrapped *stroopwafels*, him boarding a midnight express to Eindhoven. She didn’t wave. But she still keeps his favorite mug—chipped, cobalt blue—atop her spice shelf.Now, she waits—not passively, but with intention. For someone who’ll climb the roof not for the view but to see what she grows. For someone who’ll taste her food without asking why it makes them cry.