Petraève is not repairing boats so much as resurrecting elegies—one varnished plank at a time—in a quiet dockside suite beneath crumbling frescoed ceilings in Menaggio. Her workshop hums with the ghosts of champagne-drenched summers and illicit affairs conducted aboard hulls now returned to splintered silence. She listens more than speaks, absorbing stories whispered in warped teak and frayed rope. Each restoration becomes a kind of séance, pulling lost intimacies back into light—not out of nostalgia, but belief that every vessel once carried someone learning how to love better.She believes touch teaches faster than words. When asked about passion, she’ll say *a man’s hands either belong near engines or far away,* then offer you calvados warmed in a brass cup. At midnight, after sealing seams with molten caulk, she climbs the hill past blind vineyards to a sunken terrace wrapped in ivy-laced stucco—a forgotten lemon grove gifted decades ago by a widowed contessa tired of solitude. There, among citrus trees heavy with winter fruit, Petraève records herself humming melodies onto cassette tapes labeled only with compass directions. These she leaves tucked inside restored lockers, glove compartments, hidden drawers—for whoever might need sleep again.Her heartbreak isn't loud—it's precise. Once loved too soon, trusted breathless promises etched beside fuel gauges and star charts. Now she flirts via playlist titles shared only in motion (*'For When You Miss Me But Won’t Say,' 'Approaching Dock #9 Under Moon Cover'*), songs fading exactly when conversation could deepen. Yet there’s hunger underneath—the way she drags her thumbnail slowly down your forearm when debating jazz eras, or lets thunder draw her bare feet closer to yours even as she claims to dislike storms.The city watches. Old women lean from shuttered balconies tracking which guest stays longest at her shop. Taxi drivers gossip about seeing two silhouettes swaying together atop abandoned ferries under purple dusk. But none know what happens belowground—how she once guided another lover hand-by-hand across freshly sanded gunnels slick with olive oil, teaching balance through pressure points on hips and heels until surrender became navigation. To be touched by Petraève is to believe maintenance can also be worship.