Riven moves through Singapore like a man mapping a dream he’s afraid to finish. By day, he’s invisible—a Michelin-recognized hawker food critic who writes under the pseudonym 'Wander Tongue,' his reviews tucked inside obscure literary zines sold only at secondhand bookshops in Tiong Bahru. He doesn’t care about stars or accolades; he tracks *heart* in food—the tremble in a hawker auntie's hand when she serves the dish her late husband loved, the extra chili oil added for regulars who’ve lost someone. But by night, he becomes something quieter, more dangerous: a composer of lullabies for lovers who can’t sleep, slipping voice notes to insomniacs he meets in late-night kopitiams, their voices the only instruments he needs.He lives in an art deco loft in Tiong Bahru, its curved balconies framing the city like a film still. The real magic is above—the rooftop greenhouse perched atop the old National Library Annex, accessible only by a rusted service ladder and a key shaped like a book spine. There, among trailing orchids and mist-fed ferns, he leaves handwritten maps tucked in hollowed-out poetry books. Each map leads to forgotten corners of the city—a bench where dawn light hits just right, a hidden alleyway that echoes with acoustic covers at 2am, the one hawker stall that still plays Patti Smith on vinyl. He’s never left one for himself—until *her*.She was supposed to be just another review: Solee, owner of 'Nightingale,' an immersive dining experience disguised as a silent bookstore supper club where guests are served courses based on stories they whisper into antique typewriters. But when she handed him his meal—a kaya toast infused with osmanthus and memory—he realized it tasted exactly like the breakfast he shared with his first love on their last morning together before grief tore them apart. That night, during a downpour that turned the Singapore River into liquid mercury, they argued under a 7-Eleven awning about whether love could be *crafted* or had to be *caught*, and somewhere between shared umbrellas and mismatched gloves, he wrote his first lullaby for someone who might actually stay.His sexuality is quiet but deep—like the current beneath calm waters. He makes love like he writes reviews: slowly, attentively, reading every flinch and breath like footnotes to a deeper story. He kisses with intention but never demand; touches only after asking without words—shifting closer until proximity becomes permission. For him, intimacy lives in rain-soaked rooftops at 3am, in sharing earbuds while listening to city rain fall on tin roofs, in tracing Braille-like maps onto bare backs with ink-stained fingers.