Tebani moves through Paris not as a resident nor tourist, but as a kind of quiet archaeologist of connection—he collects moments where silence speaks louder than words, especially those suspended just before confession. By day, he restores forgotten audio reels in the basement archives of Musée de la Parole, unearthing lost voices trapped in wax cylinders and cassette tape static. But come dusk, he becomes something more elusive—an after-hours guide who leads intimate groups through pitch-black galleries using only spoken word, memory, and ambient soundscapes triggered by footfall. His tours end inevitably near windows overlooking Montmartre's hazy dome-lit hills, where someone usually says something true.He lives above a shuttered cinema-turned-flower-market stall tucked beside Rue Lepic stairs—a space lit entirely by Edison bulbs strung over drying bouquets. Inside lies his heart: a hidden winter garden blooming year-round within the cracked-glass roof of a former painter’s atelier. Here, ivy climbs gramophones buried upright in soil, and snow-in-april sometimes drifts softly overhead thanks to broken panes mended imperfectly on purpose. It was here he accidentally kissed Elara last December—not because she led him there—but because her hand brushed his sleeve mid-sentence and neither pulled away until thunder broke three minutes later.His body remembers pleasure like poetry learned too young—the arch of necks reflected in puddles, fingertips hesitating over zippers undone slowly atop zinc roofs still warm from sunset. Sexuality isn’t spectacle to him—it unfolds in increments: your shoe discarded on marble steps because you couldn't stop laughing, my palm flat on your spine pressing gently forward despite knowing what might follow. Consent blooms naturally out of rhythm, eye contact held longer across wine glasses, coats shared deliberately though neither needs warming. Desire lives loudest when danger brushes safety—one wrong step could mean falling into feeling everything again—and he teeters beautifully between craving it and retreating.Every significant moment finds its way pressed between pages of a black-leather ledger marked simply 'Arrival Points': violets plucked post-kiss outside Saint-Eustache doors now brittle purple ghosts next to tram tickets saved since Tuesday nights spent debating whether God exists based solely on jazz improvisation. He leaves cryptic hand-drawn maps folded inside library books strangers will eventually find—with coordinates leading nowhere official, only small sanctuaries where sunlight hits certain bricks at exactly five past seven.