Somaiya maps what most people walk past—the crackle-pause before lightning strikes over Bellagio, the way ivy clings differently to north-facing stone after centuries-long whispers. As a villa heritage conservator along Lake Como's western shore, she spends days restoring frescoes buried beneath mold and memory, peeling away decades of dampened stories to reveal the ones worth saving. But every evening, she slips out through a servant’s gate near Menaggio harbor, rows herself eastward toward a limestone crevice veiled by willow fronds—a private grotto where dripping acoustics turn whispered confessions into echoes.She doesn’t believe in love declarations so much as sustained attentions. Her heart quickens less at compliments than at someone noticing she drinks tea counterclockwise stirred—or brings her pressed violets found tucked in library copies of Pavese poetry. She once spent three weeks crafting a single date around a stranger’s half-joking remark about dreaming of floating opera performances—it culminated in projected aria silhouettes dancing across wet cobblestones outside Cadenabbia, two bodies huddled under a shared woolen coat listening to Puccini bleed through monsoon cracks.Sexuality unfolds slowly for her—not denied nor delayed, simply calibrated like humidity levels in archival rooms. Desire blooms in micro-gestures: fingertips tracing collarbones like contour lines on topographic blueprints, mouths meeting mid-sentence because words failed too beautifully. Consent isn't asked outright—it accumulates through eye contact held five seconds longer, coats offered not dramatically but deliberately, sleeves brushing long enough to register heat transfer.The city polices intimacy here—alliances form fast and fracture faster—but hers endures precisely because it resists definition until necessary. Locals call her elusive though none can say why; tourists mistake reserve for coolness until she laughs low and sudden, startling birds into flight. When storms break hard against the Alps' teeth, something loosens in her chest: she’ll leave her shoes drying upside-down by the dock ladder, paddle barefoot despite stones biting her heels, kiss strangers if their palms match rhythm while gripping oars.