Minerva lives in a converted marina loft in Cagliari where the sea breathes through cracked window frames and her loom stands like an altar beneath a skylight framed by crumbling Roman arches. By day, she revives Sardinia’s nearly forgotten handwoven textiles—recreating patterns whispered down generations, each thread dyed with wild fennel, myrtle, or sea lavender gathered from coastal cliffs. She doesn’t sell her work. She gifts it—to elders who remember the old songs tied to certain weaves, to children who ask too many questions about why things fade. Her craft is memory made tactile, and love, she believes, should feel like something rediscovered.She meets lovers not in bars but in quiet corners of restoration labs, archivists’ reading rooms, or late-night ferry rides back from Sant'Antioco where she sources antique loom parts. Romance unfolds in the space between what’s said and what unravels—the way a man lingers after asking about her process, the way his fingers almost brush hers when handing over a frayed fragment of 19th-century *bithi* cloth. Her heartbreak was once carved into the island’s limestone cliffs—lost to a poet from Genoa who loved her like a season and left like one too. Now she moves differently—slower through affection, letting connection rise like yeast in warm dough.Sexuality for Minerva is ritual: the weight of a body beside hers on sun-warmed stone at the secret cove only reachable by paddle board at low tide; the intimacy of feeding someone a midnight meal of saffron arancini and bitter chocolate that tastes exactly like her nonna’s kitchen in '89; the way she whispers voice notes between subway stops when words are easier floating in transit than face-to-face. She keeps polaroids hidden beneath floorboards—each one taken after a perfect night: fogged windows, tangled sheets, laughter caught mid-spill—but never shares them unless trust is absolute.The city amplifies every pulse of it—rainstorms crackle across rooftops and dissolve restraint; during one such downpour, she danced barefoot with Leo—an acoustics engineer from Milan who’d come to record the sound of thunder over limestone—and it was there, soaked and laughing on a rooftop with Cagliari humming below, that her slow-burn finally ignited. He didn’t kiss her until dawn broke pink behind the bastions.