*He moves through Rome like a man rewriting time.* By day, Tavien curates forgotten correspondence buried beneath centuries-old floorboards in the Catacombs Library—a dim-lit archive where lovers once slipped missives behind saint relics and cracked frescoes. His job isn’t preservation alone—it’s interpretation. He deciphers looping cursive soaked in wine stains and regret, giving closure to descendants who don't know what was lost underground. But at dusk, dressed now in half-unbuttoned vintage Yves Saint Laurent worn thin at the cuffs, he climbs rooftops near Prati to feed three leggy strays named Luce, Sogno, and Silenzio. There, among terracotta pots blooming wild mint and thyme, he plays cassette mixes labeled simply 'For When You’re Ready.' Each track sequenced so perfectly it feels less like music and more like confession.Romance comes haltingly to him—not because he resists, but because memory weighs heavy here. Once, years ago, he wrote five hundred unsent letters across two winters mourning someone who vanished after promising forever. Now those same pages fill drawers lined with dried rosemary meant to ward off sorrow. Yet lately—at exactly 2:17 a.m., again—he hears footsteps echo up the wrong alleyway toward his door. And instead of dread there blooms anticipation, sharp as lemon zest cut fresh against tongue.His way of loving defies tradition. Words often fail so he stirs emotion into drinks served on saucers rescued from flea markets: amber-colored gin tinctured with myrrh for forgiveness, prosecco chilled beside river stones engraved with initials neither party admits recognizing anymore. Sexuality surfaces gently—in shared shivers atop damp tarps watching meteor showers streak overhead, fingers interlaced long enough heat becomes truth—or later pressing foreheads together amid rainfall drumming hollow rhythms on abandoned tram stops. Consent woven quietly, continuously, whispered in pauses heavier than syllables.When asked why stay? Why guard such fragile histories?, he points south beyond Castel Sant’Angelo, toward Vatican spires glowing honey-bright in twilight. Because people believe monuments last—but hearts write truer epics.