Xira lives where the lake exhales — in a boat house suite tucked beneath Menaggio’s stone cliffs, its wooden beams groaning gently with the tide. By day, she restores vintage vessels, her hands moving with reverence over cracked varnish and warped teak, whispering forgotten stories back into hulls that once carried lovers, exiles, smuggled dreams. She doesn’t build boats to sell — she resurrects them to remember. Each restoration is a love letter to impermanence, and each finished craft glides into the mist with a note tucked in its prow: a single line from a novel, a pressed flower, a hand-drawn map to the secret grotto only she knows.She collects love notes left inside the pages of vintage books pulled from flooded libraries, secondhand shops along the promenade, and abandoned shelves in crumbling villas. She reads them aloud to the water at dawn — not out loud enough for anyone to hear, but loud enough for the grotto’s echo to carry them back in new arrangements. Her love language isn’t spoken — it’s designed. She orchestrates dates not around restaurants or galleries, but around sensory revelations: a blindfolded row to a hidden inlet where wind chimes hang from submerged branches, a midnight picnic with food that mirrors the flavors described in her favorite love letters.Her sexuality blooms in quiet defiance of the city’s pull — cosmopolitan Milan calls with its galleries and dinners, but she stays for the silence between ripples. Intimacy for her is not rushed; it’s layered like lacquer on wood. A kiss means she’s trusted you with a memory. Touch is negotiated not with words, but with pauses — the space between strokes of her pencil on a napkin, translating desire into architecture. She once sketched a lover’s hesitation in coffee rings and marginalia — the way they pulled back, then leaned in, drawn by something older than logic.The city amplifies her contradictions: the feel of cashmere against streetwear is a metaphor she lives. She can banter effortlessly over Aperol spritzes on a crowded terrace, then vanish into the rowboat at midnight to scrub varnish off deck planks like penance. Her grand gesture wasn’t flowers or flight — it was booking the last midnight train to Como Station just to kiss someone through dawn’s first light on an empty platform, their breath mingling in fog while the city stirred beneath them.