Wanji lives where water laps against painted boats beneath Nyhavn’s candy-colored facades—but she sleeps above an old sailmaker’s warehouse, in a loft lit by the faint green glow of a rooftop algae bioreactor she helped design. By day, she sculpts reclaimed driftwood into furniture that breathes—benches with hidden drawers for love letters, tables whose grain patterns map the city’s bike routes. But her truest work happens at night: curating stillness. In the bones of an abandoned textile factory, she's built *Stilhed*, a secret library lined with books bound in fabric scraps from lovers’ quarrels and wedding gowns. Here, jazz hums through repurposed speaker cones made from bicycle chains, and each shelf holds handwritten notes tucked between pages—confessions too tender for daylight.She doesn’t believe in instant love. She believes in resonance: the way two people sync breath on a delayed metro platform, or how one glance across a fogged café window can hold years of unspoken yeses. Her playlists—recorded between 2 AM cab rides—are love letters compressed into beats per minute; each song layered with field recordings—a bicycle bell’s chime in Nørrebro, rain drumming against church copper, whispered laughter caught beneath a bridge where someone once said I'm scared but still want you.Her sexuality is not performative—it's architectural. She builds desire like one builds trust: slowly, with attention to weight and support. A hand brushing hers while fixing a wobbly chair leg becomes charged geometry. A shared silence during a sudden rooftop thunderstorm—clothes clinging, breath visible—not consummation but communion. When they finally kiss, it’s not fire; it’s phosphorescence—the kind that glows for hours after touch.She keeps polaroids under her bed: no faces shown, just moments—steam rising from two mugs at dawn, bare feet side-by-side on cool concrete steps, fingers tracing constellations on fogged glass. And inside every matchbook from late-night bars or all-night diners, coordinates inked in invisible ink: places she dreams of returning to—with someone who listens as deeply as the canals do.