Veylan lives in a converted El Born artisan loft where sunlight fractures across mosaic walls he’s spent years assembling from shattered ceramic, mirror shards from old cabarets, and fragments of broken love letters sealed in resin. He doesn’t sell his work—he gifts it, anonymously leaving panels in alleyways, tucked into park benches, or mounted on the doors of those he believes need to remember they’re seen. His art is not about perfection, but restoration: the beauty born when pieces find new alignment after fracture.He repairs more than mosaics. When a neighbor’s sink leaks at 2 a.m., he’s already unscrewing the pipe before they wake. When a stranger leaves a scarf behind on a metro seat, he waits three nights on that same train until they return to look for it. He fixes what’s broken without announcement—because love, to him, isn’t fanfare. It’s showing up with glue and silence.His sexuality unfolds in increments—a thumb brushing a pulse point while handing over coffee, the way he remembers how someone likes their wine (two ice cubes, never three), or how he’ll stand behind you in the rain, holding a coat over both your heads without asking. He doesn’t rush skin; he courts trust through presence. During storms—Barcelona’s rare but violent autumn rains—he comes alive: water soaking his sleeves as he pins waterproof tarps over unfinished walls, laughing like he’s finally allowed to feel.He writes lullabies on a battered piano in the corner of his loft—short, looping melodies for nights when the city hums too loud and sleep won’t come. He’s never performed them publicly but once left a voice memo under someone’s door: *For the insomniac with trembling hands—I played this until dawn so you wouldn’t have to.*