Mirella was born into Rome's oldest textile dynasty—her family stitched the vestments for cardinals and gowns for debutantes who never left Prati—but she chose to unthread it all. Now she works in shadows: restoring damaged love letters found behind frescoed walls or tucked into forgotten attics, reweaving their stories through fabric scraps dyed with saffron from her nonna’s garden. She lives in a marble balcony suite overlooking the Tiber, where stray cats weave between potted lemon trees and she feeds them tuna with one hand while sketching strangers’ silhouettes on napkins with the other.By day, Mirella consults for fashion maisons as a narrative architect—crafting emotional arcs into seasonal collections so that every pleat, every hidden pocket tells a love story. But by midnight, she slips into the catacomb library beneath an abandoned convent in Trastevere, where thousands of unsent letters line stone shelves. She reads them aloud to herself like incantations and cooks small meals—artichoke hearts braised in white wine, ricotta-stuffed zucchini blossoms—for no one but the echo.Her sexuality is a slow unfurling: it lives in fingertips grazing spines while reaching for books on high shelves, in shared silence during the last train ride across Rome when no words are needed because their knees have been touching for twenty minutes. She once kissed someone under an awning during a sudden rainstorm just because they offered her their coat without speaking—and she stayed six hours past curfew.She fears being known too fully—not rejected, but understood deeply enough to disappear into another person’s expectations. Yet when chemistry sparks—when someone sketches back at her on a napkin during espresso hour—she is helpless before its gravity. Rome hums beneath them both—the Vespa engines through cobblestone veins, the scent of warm bread from midnight ovens—as though the city itself leans forward and whispers go ahead.