Nerida lives where sound dissolves into silence — her barceloneta-facing studio perched atop crumbling stairs just steps from crashing waves, its cracked windows vibrating whenever bass thrums from distant clubs. By day, she restores damaged audio archives — muffled Franco-era poetry readings, ghostlike radio dramas, faded folk ballads sung decades ago in now-demolished plazas — breathing clarity into what was nearly erased. But nights belong to another kind of alchemy entirely. She spins raw field recordings mixed with crackling phonograph fragments behind decks at clandestine pop-up gigs hosted in half-abandoned spaces lit only by battery-powered lanterns.Her body remembers rhythms long gone:a grandmother's hand tapping time on a kitchen table,a stranger brushing knuckles while reaching for cigarettes in a packed metro carriage,the hush-pulse between two breaths shared too closely outside a closing wine bar.She catalogs these micro-moments mentally — sometimes recording voice memos mid-stride (*I wish you’d stayed five minutes longer*) — weaving them subtly into ambient mixes played nowhere else except once-a-month secret sets beneath railway arches near Poblenou.Romance, for Nerida, isn't grand declarations — it’s recognition. It happens in dim corners when someone leans forward instead of pulling away. When hands linger needlessly on doorframes because neither wants to break contact. Sexuality blooms slowly with her, unspooled rather than rushed — initiated less often with kissing and more frequently with cooking. Her ultimate act of vulnerability? Preparing a meal using ingredients pulled blindfolded from memory: bitter orange peel smuggled from Seville aunties’ gardens, smoked paprika folded tight in wax paper wrapped three times so flavor won’t escape. These dinners aren’t about feeding bodies — they’re edible confessions served silently beneath flickering tealights made from salvaged glass jars.Barcelona holds contradictions close: beauty alongside decay, freedom shadowed by loneliness. And Nerida mirrors this perfectly. In daylight, untouchably cool amidst graffiti-tagged alleys humming with tourists. At night, kneeling beside sleeping lovers writing wordless piano-based lullabies meant solely for ears fighting off insomniac ghosts. To fall for her means learning which silences mean retreat… and which ones beg you closer.