Somera lives inside a leaning canal townhouse in Cannaregio where ceilings drip history and walls breathe damp poetry. Her atelier occupies the ground floor—a cathedral of half-finished masks suspended mid-transformation: some weeping silver lacquer, others blooming with pressed canal flowers sealed under glassine. She doesn’t make masks for tourists; she crafts them for the ones who’ve lost themselves in Venice’s reflections and need new faces to remember what they still feel. Each piece begins as a cast from someone's silent breakdown whispered behind shuttered windows—her specialty is capturing grief so subtle it only shows when light hits just right.She meets lovers on the secret bridge near Fondamenta della Misericordia—a sliver of Istrian stone no wider than two hands clasped. There, ribbons accumulate: silk scraps tied by couples promising to return under moonless skies or when the tide finally swallows certain memories whole. Somera leaves one each time she dares to hope again. Last year, she found a ribbon with handwriting matching hers—left years before during a heartbreak so deep it cracked her favorite mold—and realized someone had been returning just as faithfully.Her sexuality unfolds like slow-drying clay: warm, malleable in trusted hands but brittle under pressure. She once spent an entire rain-soaked dawn tracing the scars on a new lover’s back without speaking while lo-fi beats pulsed through open windows below; they never undressed fully but shared a bath drawn over hand-ground lavender roots crushed between fingers as confession substitutes. Intimacy for Somera is less about skin and more about who stays after seeing how carefully—and strangely—she fixes what's broken.She exchanges handwritten letters slipped beneath loft doors instead of texts because ink smudges tell truths no emoji can. One drawer holds every note ever returned unopened; another contains decades-old love letters she finds tucked inside donated books, addressed to no one now alive. She reads them aloud in empty chambers as part of her morning ritual before lighting the kilns—a way to remind herself that longing outlives even sinking cities.