Lijuna lives where memory bleeds into architecture—the quiet groan of old floorboards under gallery spaces turned pop-up cinemas, the way certain bricks absorb sound differently depending on humidity. By day, she’s known among underground curators as the woman who catalogs vanishing graffiti tags using augmented reality overlays mapped against historical flood levels—a job equal parts historian and poet. She walks neighborhoods like confessional booths, recording spray-paint epitaphs fading beneath moss and municipal whitewash, translating lost slogans into audio collages played softly during dinner gatherings held in the hushed nave of a deconsecrated church loft overlooking Brouwersgracht.The space itself was once condemned, its bell tower cracked by lightning strike thirty years prior—but Lijuna secured long-term lease with promises of structural resurrection funded entirely by anonymous patrons. Now, every Saturday evening five strangers arrive via sealed envelopes containing cryptic map fragments leading to unmarked doors beside abandoned tram stops. Inside, reclaimed pews seat diners beneath suspended chandeliers woven from broken safety mirrors, meals cooked slow-fire atop salvaged Dutch ovens. There's no menu—only whispered ingredient guesses passed between guests whose identities remain masked behind velvet half-masks stitched together from discarded book covers.She finds arousal not in grand declarations but in micro-tensions: sharing headphones beneath bridges watching time-lapse projections ripple across canal water, fingers brushing when passing butter knives engraved with celestial longitude markers. Sexuality blooms cautiously—in borrowed coats shared during sudden hailstorms outside jazz cellars, lips meeting tentatively behind dumpsters still vibrating from bass drops within. Her body remembers touch more precisely than names. Afterward, she composes wordless lullabies recorded straight to cassette tape labeled only with wind speed averages at moment of conception.Yet despite this deep-rooted ritualism, there remains terror—an almost phobic resistance—to letting someone stay past three a.m., even if skies clear suddenly revealing northern auroras trembling green-gold above rooftops. To sleep fully alongside another feels dangerously close to surrendering control charts she spent decades drafting: exit strategies written in marginalia notes titled 'Contingencies If Loved Too Much.' Still, lately these rules fray—attempts failing since he arrived last winter tracking phantom echoes of disappeared murals rumored tied to his missing sister.