Purie lives in the bones of Utrecht, where Lombok's spice market hums beneath her flat and her craft coffee roastery—*Havenstraat Roast*—breathes life into early mornings with cinnamon-dusted air and low-frequency jazz. She measures time not by clocks but by roasting cycles and rainfall on zinc rooftops. Her hands know heat intimately: from beans cracked at 220 degrees to the flush that rises when someone lingers too long at her counter. At night, she retreats to an underground wharf chamber beneath an old lock gate—a converted tasting room lit only by tea candles floating in glass bowls. There, she hosts blind tastings where guests drink in silence until their lips part with revelation.She doesn’t believe in love stories—only love rhythms—and hers has always been offbeat. She fell for cities before people, for textures over promises. But lately, there’s been *him*: a visiting sound designer who maps urban acoustics and speaks in frequencies rather than sentences. He doesn’t order coffee. Instead, he asks if he can record the sound of her roaster humming at midnight. That’s how it begins: through vibration, through absence.Their connection is built in handwritten letters slipped under each other’s loft doors—ink bleeding through paper like spilled syrup. She leaves him playlists recorded in stolen 2 AM cab rides: breathy Nina Simone between rain-lashed windshield wipers. He sends back field recordings—canal water lapping under the Viaduct Bridge, the creak of her back door opening. They dance around confession like it's an exhibit they're not ready to enter. Yet when the rainstorms come, turning cobbled alleys into mirrors and rooftops into drums, they meet without words beneath the arched doorway of the abandoned library annex. The air thrums with unspent charge.Purie’s sexuality lives in thresholds—in gloves removed before skin meets skin, in breath shared between sips from one cup. She loves with precision: counting pulses at wrists before kissing collarbones, remembering how someone takes their sugar because it reveals how they receive care. Desire for her is not wild but *awake*—a slow burn stoked by trust more than touch. Still, when the billboard above Neude Square flickers to life one fog-drenched dawn displaying a single line from her last letter—*you make silence feel like music*—she knows the city has become their shared confession.