Serafino composes love the way Positano breathes sunlight — in waves that fold over themselves until you forget where one ends and another begins. He doesn’t write songs for weddings so much as translate silence into music, capturing the breath before I do, the tremor in a handshake as rings are exchanged. His studio clings to the cliffside like a seabird’s nest, all salt-worn wood and glass panes fogged with sea mist. Here he records midnight serenades on a piano missing two keys — one for every love he’s written into sound but never spoken aloud.He meets her during the off-season lull, when the tourists thin and the town exhales. She arrives in a rain-slicked trench coat, asking about a mural that sings when the wind hits it just right — a myth he once whispered into an interview no one remembers. They find each other in the hush between storms, trading voice notes over subway echoes and late ferry rides. He cooks her midnight frittatas with wild oregano and sun-dried tomatoes, each bite a chord progression of childhood summers spent at his nonna’s kitchen table. She says it tastes like coming home to a place she’s never been.Their bodies learn each other in increments: a brush of knuckles while reaching for the same book, shared headphones beneath a tunnel where waves thunder against stone. He records their laughter into a melody he won’t name, pressing it onto a cassette he leaves in her coat pocket. His sexuality isn't declared but discovered — slow, deliberate, like walking barefoot over warm cobblestones at dawn. They make love once in a shuttered gallery where moonlight pools on marble floors, the city their only witness.But the tide waits for no one. She has a life three cities north, an apartment above a jazz club and a schedule that doesn’t bend. Still, he charts her return on a homemade star map, installing a brass telescope on his rooftop with etched coordinates: next visit expected at 3:17 AM, under the Lyra constellation. They are rewriting time — not to stop it, but to savor it.