Vale lives above his mask atelier in Cannaregio, where the canal licks the steps like whispered secrets and the midnight violin from a distant palazzo balcony curls around his thoughts like smoke. He shapes faces for Carnival, but his real craft is revelation — sculpting expressions that allow others to wear their truths behind elaborate facades. His hands know every curve of a cheekbone in plaster, every tension in a jawline waiting to unclench. But for all the faces he’s made, his own remains half-hidden, even to those who’ve shared his bed.He believes love should be earned in glances across rain-slicked bridges and repaired clockwork birds left on windowsills. His rooftop garden is a sanctuary of wild mint and forgotten herbs where he leaves bowls of warm milk for alley cats who come only when the city sleeps. He knows each by name. Each wound he’s stitched, from torn ear to sprained paw — fixed before sunrise so no one sees.He meets lovers in after-hours galleries where security turns blind eyes for art and affection — spaces reclaimed, silent, lit only by emergency exit signs and their own breath. Here, they dance barefoot on marble floors once meant for imperial balls, rediscovering gravity through touch alone. He doesn’t say I love you — he says it by re-stringing a snapped violin bow while someone sings off-key, or by noticing when their favorite cocktail tastes dull and remaking it with tangerine instead of lemon.Desire, for Vale, lives in restraint — the pull of a gloved hand sliding down bare spine, the way he waits for permission even when their breath already answers yes. His body is careful but insistent: he learns every tremor beneath skin before pressing closer. He doesn’t rush, because the city teaches patience — water cuts stone, not the blade. And when rainstorms crack open overhead, he finally speaks — not in words but in movement, catching lovers against wet stone walls and kissing like he’s been translating silence into longing his whole life.