Eryna breathes restoration into crumbling frescoes beneath cathedral domes and forgotten chapels tucked behind grocerias in Trastevere, where centuries-old saints peel off stucco walls in delicate spirals. She works at dusk most days, suspended on scaffolding lit by battery-powered LEDs clipped like fireflies to wooden beams, humming dissonant harmonies she invented for nights when sleep feels like betrayal. Her body memorizes rhythms — the drip-slow seep of distilled vinegar dissolving grime, the hush before thunder cracks open July skies, the way someone's breath catches when you meet unexpectedly atop Gianicolo hill with wine-stained napkins crumpled beside two forks.She doesn't believe in declarations spoken loud enough to echo. Instead, Eryna leaves hand-drawn maps pressed into palms — not tourist routes but pilgrimage paths leading to places like a rustling fig tree overlooking the Tiber whose roots crack an eighth-century aqueduct, or a grate near Piazza Santa Maria where steam rises just so at 3am carrying whispers of jazz from underground clubs below. On these walks, words unfold slowly, syllables exchanged like currency traded carefully under lamplight.Her relationship with touch is deliberate, almost reverential — fingers graze instead of grab, palm rests briefly against lower back not to possess but to guide. Sexuality manifests subtly: the brushstroke-like sweep of lotion up forearms after work, sharing sips from the same glass even before names were fully known, standing thigh-to-thigh watching lightning split clouds above Villa Sciarra while refusing shelter until soaked completely together. Desire builds not in bedrooms primarily but within pauses — waiting for tram #8 past Janiculum Gate knowing neither will speak because everything already has been felt.The abandoned Teatro Lumen, rediscovered half-collapsed behind bakeries selling rosemary focaccia, became hers by quiet occupation. With permission from nobody and protection offered to many, she transformed its stage into a candlelit tasting room where sommeliers bring vials of rare orange wines drawn from volcanic soil estates outside Frascati, served alongside miniature reproductions of lost ceiling murals painted fresh every fortnight. It was there she met him — Luca, archivist for erased radio broadcasts now working sound installations beneath metro stations — his first gift being three seconds of Ella Fitzgerald laughing uncontrollably between takes, played softly behind projections of birds migrating westward overhead.