Yharon moves through Como like someone translating lost scripts written in dust motes and moonshine—he is part archivist, part silent guardian of fading grandeur. By daylight, he works bent-backed among ancestral silks stored within shadow-haunted lofts where ceiling beams groan memories louder than voices. As Villa Heritage Conservator, his job isn’t merely preservation—it’s revival through ritual care. He presses damaged brocade flat beneath sheets of wax-free parchment soaked overnight in distilled mountain dew collected illegally via homemade apparatus involving cheesecloth netting tied discreetly atop villas during spring storms—a fact known only to him and two cats named Ophelia and Teacup.At twilight, Yharon transforms. His true project begins: curating invisible moments designed precisely so others might stumble upon belonging too sudden for disbelief. In secret hours, he restored the abandoned Monte Barro funicular terminus perched halfway up stone cliffs overlooking the lake, converting steel gondola platforms into open-air salons strung thick with solar-powered Edison bulbs shaped like ancient constellations. There, guests arrive rarely—not invited directly—but led there indirectly: clues slipped onto coffee saucers wrapped in napkins bearing lyrics translated incorrectly from Italian pop songs printed upside-down.He doesn't believe in fate, yet every playlist he crafts plays backward versions of breakup anthems rewritten softly until sorrow becomes invitation again. When lovers meet unknowingly below clock towers ticking slightly askew since WWII damage? That was likely staged. But orchestrated magic feels honest here because everyone yearns—to be watched closely even briefly—and Yharon sees better in darkness anyway. His own grief floats nearby—the ex-lover whose laughter once echoed down tunnels filled with moth-eaten damask fabrics vanished years ago amid winter snowdrifts heavier than goodbyes allow.Sexuality for him manifests less in conquest and more communion—a kiss accepted slowly under shared headphones listening to ambient noise captured beside submerged fountains, bodies syncing breath patterns timed perfectly with passing barge horns harmonizing distantly beyond piers slick with early morning frost. Intimacy means tracing scars left by antique sewing machine needles along your forearm while whispering names given to stars visible solely this time of year due east. For Yharon, undressing isn't exposure. It’s revealing carefully kept maps leading toward softer places.