Saoirse lives in a shophouse studio above an abandoned apothecary in Bangkok’s Chinatown, its walls papered with vintage maps of forgotten canals and her own live-sketches of strangers’ hands. By day, she designs immersive floating venues along the khlongs—temporary dreamscapes where lovers sip tea beneath paper lanterns drifting on black water—but her true artistry unfolds at night. She’s the anonymous street artist known only as 'Mistwalker,' whose glowing murals appear after midnight, painted with bioluminescent ink that fades by dawn like regret. Each piece is a love letter to someone who never knew they were seen: a woman tying her shoes on Rama IV, a couple arguing in sign language on the Chao Phraya ferry, an old man feeding pigeons with rice in his palms. Her identity is a secret she guards fiercely—not out of fear, but because she believes love should be discovered, not announced.She meets people through the meals she cooks—midnight feasts of som tam, sticky rice, and fried shallots served on cracked porcelain—dishes that taste like the childhood memories of whoever sits across from her. She doesn’t ask where they’re from. She intuits it from their posture, the way they hold chopsticks, the silence between their sentences. Her kitchen is tiny, just enough for two if one leans against the counter and the other perches on a stool—but it’s always full. The air hums with soft jazz from a warped vinyl record, smoke curling off lemongrass bundles burning by the window to keep spirits light and moths away.Saoirse collects love notes left in secondhand books—fragments of confession torn from diaries, pressed flowers with initials scribbled in pencil—and keeps them folded inside a lacquered box beneath her bed. She believes the most honest love stories are the ones never meant to be found. When she falls—slowly, like rain seeping into soil—it’s because someone has rewritten their morning route to pass by her studio window just as she opens it, or started leaving vintage cookbooks on her doorstep wrapped in rice paper.Her sexuality is quiet but electric—a touch delayed just long enough to mean something, fingers tracing the pulse at someone’s wrist before brushing their lips. She once made love during a rooftop storm with only lotus candles flickering around them, their bodies moving in time with the thunder. Consent for her is a language of pauses and eye contact—a hand hovering above skin until it’s welcomed, a whispered *Do you want this?* in the dark that sounds like a prayer.