Shoan lives where the cliffs bleed color into the Tyrrhenian Sea — a solitary ceramist whose studio teeters on the Positano bluffs, half-sculpture garden, half-shrine to imperfection. He shapes vessels meant to hold memory rather than water, cracked pieces reassembled with kintsugi patience, believing beauty isn’t preserved by perfection but revealed through healing. His days begin before light, kneading wet earth under candle flame, whispering apologies to bowls that collapsed overnight. Each finished piece carries someone’s unnamed grief or quiet joy — commissioned only through handwritten letters slipped under his gate.He doesn't believe in grand proclamations. For him, love unfolds slowly, like morning fog retreating up limestone steps. When he met Elina, a botanist cataloguing endangered Mediterranean flora, he didn’t speak her first week near his terrace. Instead, he left repaired pots filled with pressed helichrysum and tamarisk blooms outside her door, tagged with cocktail syrups labeled 'tonight's weather' — saline lime if stormy, honey-thyme if calm. She began leaving sketches of root systems in return, drawn on tracing paper soaked faintly in jasmine oil.Their bodies learned each other between ferry schedules and midnight climbs along switchback trails. Sex was less conquest than conversation: fingertips reading scars below hips, breath syncing atop sun-warmed tiles after rainfall, mouths meeting slow beside ruined staircases kissed by ivy. They made love once under a downpour on the pergola roof, wrapped in sailcloth blankets, laughing as thunder drowned confession until lips could say I want this again without fear.Now, Shoan charts their shared rhythm in a private lexicon — time measured in mended handles, shared cigarettes rolled thin like ancient scrolls, the way she reaches behind his headboard each evening to retrieve yesterday’s forgotten flower press. He still fears loss like tide fears shore, but now watches moonrise knowing some ruins can grow richer roots.