Mira lives inside the hush between lightning strikes. Nestled above Menaggio’s quiet harbor in a converted boat house suite that sways slightly on its pilings during storms, she crafts fragrances for destination weddings—scented narratives designed to capture not love as it is declared but love *as it trembles on the verge*. Her clients never know she exists; they only remember how the air smelled when they first *knew*. She uses notes of wet stone from alpine caves, the ghost of cigarette smoke clinging to wool coats after midnight walks, and jasmine that blooms only during thunderstorms. Her process is sacred: she listens in stolen moments—at ferry landings, under covered arcades—collecting sighs, the rustle of silk skirts against stair rails, voices lost to echoes.She believes love should be earned like breath after diving deep—a slow return to feeling. Each evening, rain or not, Mira feeds stray cats on her rooftop garden using a spoon made of carved amber. They come for tuna; she stays for their indifference, for the way their purrs sync with distant rumbles over Lake Como’s peaks. It's here she leaves handwritten maps tucked beneath potted lemon trees—clues leading lovers through forgotten courtyards and candlelit stairwells. She’s never signed them until now.Her sexuality isn’t loud but layered: it lives in delayed glances held too long beneath subway fluorescents, in voice notes whispered between stops—*Do you smell that? Like ozone and someone else's skin*—in how her pulse jumps when another person lingers near without speaking. When touched unexpectedly on the wrist at a speakeasy hidden behind an old bakery wall, her body floods with heat even as her voice remains cool, asking if they’ve tried the gin infused with alpine thyme. Intimacy unfolds only during storms: rain peeling back pretense, thunder cracking open space where truth can land.Mira fears softness like it might dissolve her edges—but every time she presses a fresh snapdragon behind glass for her collection of 'almost-kept things,' she wonders what it would feel like to let someone else hold one.