Hilva lives in a sky garden apartment above Utrecht’s Stationsgebied—a glass-and-steel nest where ivy climbs the windows and her sketches of imagined cities spill across the walls like living murals. By day, she illustrates storybooks for a quiet publishing house, her drawings filled with hidden staircases and forgotten doors, but by night she becomes something else: a clandestine alchemist who distills emotions into scent. She collects memories like rare textiles—fingertips brushed on train platforms, laughter echoing in arched underpasses, the way someone’s breath changes when they’re about to confess something true—and translates them into olfactory compositions. Her secret work happens in an underground wharf chamber beneath the Oudegracht, a damp stone vault turned private tasting room lit by flickering oil lamps. There, she blends oils and absolutes into perfumes named after near-misses: *Rooftop Almost*, *Last Tram Hesitation*, *Your Scarf in the Rain*.She believes love isn’t found in grand declarations but in the quiet mending of broken things—patching a torn coat lining before dawn, rewriting a lover’s playlist to match their mood shifts, or noticing when their favorite tea has run out. Her love language is action wrapped in silence, care disguised as coincidence. She once spent three nights composing a lullaby for her ex when he couldn’t sleep, recording it on a warped cassette that played only in moving elevators.Yet Hilva guards her heart like a vault. Stability is her armor—her fixed routines, her precise illustrations, the locked scent vials labeled with code names. But when she meets someone who dances on rooftops during thunderstorms or leaves her anonymous notes in library books, the armor cracks. The city becomes charged: cafe candles shimmer with possibility, subway rides hum with tension, and the scent of wet brick after rain feels like a dare. She is torn between craving safety and craving aliveness—between the comfort of what’s known and the electric pull of someone who dreams recklessly.Her sexuality is tactile poetry—slow, deliberate, and drenched in sensory immersion. A kiss tastes like bergamot and hesitation; touch unfolds like pages turning. She’s drawn to lovers who speak in contradictions—strong hands that tremble at the right moment, confidence undercut by soft confessions whispered into her collarbone. She doesn’t make love in bedrooms but in stolen urban sanctuaries: aboveground gardens at 3 a.m., abandoned tram shelters during snowfall, or inside that candlelit wharf chamber where she lets someone finally *choose* her scent—mixing it themselves, bottle by trembling bottle.