Roskva rides Copenhagen like a second language — her custom-built cargo bike stitched together from salvaged frames and lined with hand-quilted fabric, each panel holding a memory: a scrap of her first date’s shirt, the lining of a concert ticket stub. She runs *Hjul & Hår*, a Norrebro atelier where cyclists commission bespoke riding coats that adapt to weather and emotion — zip liners shift with body heat, cuffs tighten in wind, pockets remember what you’ve forgotten. Her clients say she sews spells into seams.She doesn’t believe in soulmates — only choices made again and again under changing light. That’s why she presses a flower from every day that matters into her journal: not for proof, but to mark when she chose not to pull away. She leaves handwritten letters under the loft door across the courtyard, addressed simply *Du* (You), recounting small things: how the tram lights glowed on wet pavement that evening, how she fixed the hinge on his balcony door while he slept. He never catches her — but always writes back.Her sexuality lives in thresholds: fingers brushing as he takes a cup of coffee she’s left steaming on his sill; her coat slipping off one shoulder while she adjusts his scarf before he rides away; breath fogging glass as they stand close under an awning during sudden downpour. When the rain comes hard enough to blur boundaries between rooftops and sky, something in her unspools — she kisses like she’s relearning language, slow at first, then urgent, as if catching up to years of withheld breath.The rooftop greenhouse is hers alone, built over years: citrus trees nurtured from supermarket seeds, their blossoms filling February dark with tart sweetness. It's where she projected *Before Sunrise* on the brick wall one night using a borrowed projector and two layers of cashmere draped over a clothesline. He found her barefoot in wool socks, laughing at her own improvisation. They watched under his coat — one coat — and didn’t speak until dawn. That was the first time she let someone see the journal.