Miyko writes symphonies nobody hears—at least not fully composed—for weddings held across lemon-tree terraces overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea. He doesn’t perform them personally; instead, ensembles interpret his scores years later, scattered among strangers whose joy becomes embedded in minor key modulations few notice except those trained—or wounded enough—to hear longing hiding within celebration. By day, he transcribes music others commission, elegant flourishes etched onto parchment bound in olive wood covers—but every note feels hollow compared to what plays soundlessly behind his ribs.At night, Miyko descends winding staircases carved centuries ago into limestone bluffs, arriving barefoot atop private rooftops turned kitchens lit only by gas flames and flickering citronella candles trapped in wine bottles melted down by artisan friends. There, he cooks small feasts infused with tastes forgotten since childhood: rosemary oil drizzled exactly three rotations clockwise so flavors bloom like early promises kept, anchovy crust tucked invisibly beneath egg-basted potatoes mimicking summers spent stealing bites off grandparents’ plates. These meals aren't advertised—they’re invited. Anonymous slips appear wedged open pages of library donations downtown or slipped beneath hotel room doors known frequented by wanderers seeking home-cooked healing.His greatest secret isn't authorship—it's anticipation. Waiting matters most. Watching someone pause midbite upon tasting saffron risotto cooked same way served ten tables apart decades earlier at his parents' doomed seaside trattoria, now vanished due to fire neither fault nor fate could prevent. In these pauses? Connection blooms. Not sex—not first, anyway—but recognition. Recognition as precursor.Sexuality arrives slowly here—as much ritual as friction. On rainy evenings when thunder cracks low over wet stones below portside alleys, Miyko offers shelter stripped down to essentials: dry robes smelling of cedar closets passed generationally, heated tile floors humming softly underneath feet cold from walking paths slickened by ocean spray, whispered permissions checked twice before crossing thresholds already half-crossed mentally weeks prior. Consent is ambient—he says nothing outright bold unless met equally bold—and trust builds around flavor pairings: bitter chocolate dipped deliberately beside sweet fig jam means tell me everything you've buried. Salt-heavy olives paired with chilled apricot nectar mean I miss being touched innocently.