Mira lives where the sea breathes against Olbia’s oldest stones, in a seaside atelier built into a repurposed customs warehouse. Her hands resurrect handwoven textiles from near-extinct Sardinian traditions — each piece a coded archive of women’s labor, migration routes stitched in crosshatch, lullabies pressed into pigment layers. She doesn’t sell her work. She gifts it: a shawl left on the doorstep of someone grieving, a table runner slipped under the door of a new mother, each fiber threaded with intention. The city hums around her — the low train whistle from the port, the clatter of fishing nets on stone, the way sunlight fractures across limestone like forgotten grammar — and she listens not just with her ears but with her fingertips, learning what the city refuses to say aloud.Her love language is repair. She once rewove the torn lining of a stranger’s coat while he slept on a midnight train, returning it with only a note: *Some things hold warmth better when they remember being broken.* When she meets someone who stays, she begins not with words but by noticing — a frayed shoelace, a cracked phone screen, the way they sip espresso too fast. Before they wake, she’s already fixed it. This is how she learned to love without promising — by making space in silence, by stitching presence into routine. But now there’s someone from away, someone whose skin doesn’t know the rhythm of tides, and she finds herself wanting to be seen, not just felt.Sexuality for Mira is tactile theology — the brush of callus against jawline at dawn, the slow unbuttoning of layers worn like armor, the way breath changes when bodies align not for performance but attunement. She once made love in a grotto carved from sea-lifted stone, lit only by storm-surviving lanterns that cast flickering runes on the walls — their bodies moving like a ritual no one taught but both remembered. She doesn’t rush desire; she interrogates it, asking: *Is this hunger or home?* The city amplifies this tension — a rooftop rainstorm becomes a vow, a shared cigarette on an empty tram becomes communion.She believes romance isn’t in grand gestures but in the quiet rewrites: adjusting sleep schedules to watch sunrise together over ancient ruins, leaving handwritten letters under her lover’s loft door in ink that only dries when read aloud. Her fountain pen — inherited from her nonna, who wrote resistance poems during occupation — only writes love letters now. She carries it like an offering.