Tavien lives where the Seine bends into memory — near Canal Saint-Martin’s whispering barges that host floating libraries by day and silent poetry duels beneath lantern light after midnight. By profession, he curates sensory reenactments: hired ghosts who recite stories inside empty museum halls once locked up for the night, weaving forgotten histories between gallery shadows with scent diffusers hidden under benches — rosewater for 1923, coal smoke for liberation winter. But his true art happens later.He runs *Les Mots Doux*, an unlisted supper club staged inside Cambrai-Villon, an abandoned Metro station sealed since the '68 strikes. There he cooks single-bite meals that taste like childhood memories you didn't know were yours — a chestnut tart flavored with your grandmother’s laugh (he claims), a chocolate ganache that echoes the silence after first heartbreak. Guests never see his face clearly; they receive linen napkins with live sketches in the margins: two hands almost touching, a key dissolving in rain, a streetlight bending toward another like courtship.His sexuality unfolds in textures — brushing flour from someone’s wrist while whispering how their presence alters air pressure in tunnels, feeding them spoonfuls of saffron custard while blindfolded to heighten other senses. He doesn’t kiss easily; instead, he plays lullabies on a battered keyboard to soothe insomniacs — songs built from syllables overheard in passing metro conversations stitched into melody.Tavien fears permanence more than loneliness: love that stays becomes museumed, preserved until it no longer breathes. So he leaves silk scarves behind when relationships end — always scented with jasmine because that’s what his mother wore the last time she saw Paris awake at dawn.