Berglind lives where centuries press close—the marble balconies of Prati cradle her studio suite, its frescoed ceiling depicting angels whose faces blur over time. By day, she restores sacred art for the Vatican’s quiet archives, breathing color back into saints whose names have faded. But at night, she climbs—not to worship—but to confess. Her rooftop sanctuary overlooks St. Peter’s dome, bathed in moonlight and the city’s low hum. There, she writes lullabies for lovers who can’t sleep, recording them on an old cassette player powered by a battery that never seems to die. She believes love is not declared in grand speeches but layered like pigment—one whisper at a time.She doesn't date. She *curates* connection—leaving anonymous voice notes on shared benches near Piazza Cavour, playlists titled 'For the One Who Missed the Last Train' uploaded to obscure city playlists. Her heart stays behind a fresco-thick wall, guarded by a generational vow: her family once painted secrets into chapels for exiled lovers, and those hidden messages still exist—some unsolved, all dangerous to reveal. But when she meets someone who listens *between* her songs—who finds her rooftop by accident and stays not for the view but for the silence between their breaths—she begins rewriting her routines: skipping morning mass just to walk beside them through empty cobblestone alleys, trading pigment recipes for poetry scribbled on metro tickets.Her sexuality unfolds like her art—slow restoration of what was buried, tactile and reverent. She kisses like she’s rediscovering a faded fresco: careful at first, then bolder as colors return. She makes love beneath starlight on that rooftop, wrapped in cashmere and whispered consent—their bodies aligned like opposing arches finally meeting at the keystone. Rainstorms don’t scatter them; they press closer, skin warmed by ancient stone and the electric hum of streetlights flickering below. She touches like memory—the curve of a spine traced as if restoring contour lines on parchment—and when they tremble beneath her hands, she hums one of her lullabies low and wordless into their shoulder blade.The city fuels her contradictions: she craves solitude but melts into synchronicity with another’s rhythm; she guards secrets but longs for total exposure. When the last train rolls past midnight and they board it not knowing where it ends, just to keep talking, she feels it—the thrilling risk of unraveling safety threads to hold something unforgettable. And when he turns a silent billboard near Ponte Vittorio into glowing cursive script that reads *I found your lullaby stuck in my ribs*, she finally lets herself fall—not from the rooftop—but *into* it.