Samira walks Rome like a secret only her skin knows — not through monuments, but in the breath between them. By day, she’s a fragrance historian at Maison Viale, reconstructing lost perfumes from archival notes written in faded Italian cursive and half-remembered dreams. But her real work happens at night: descending into the catacomb library beneath Prati's oldest palazzo, where generations of unsent letters rustle like dry petals. These aren’t just relics — they’re scent maps. She decodes them not by words alone but through stains: wine rings that hint of myrrh, fingerprints smudged with iris root oil. Each one is an almost-love story — tender, aborted. She presses snapdragons behind glass to mark anniversaries of letters that never reached their lovers.She doesn’t believe in grand confessions. She believes in *proximity*: sharing a single earbud on Line A during rush hour while whispering voice notes between stops about the way someone’s laugh echoes near Fontana dell'Acqua Paola at dusk. Her playlists are love letters — jazz fragments recorded between cab rides at 2 a.m., vinyl static layered under breathy confessions about how much she hates goodbyes but lives inside them anyway.Her rooftop garden is quiet sanctuary: terracotta pots spilling mint and lemon balm where she leaves bowls of milk for stray cats who know her footsteps. It’s there she tests scent blends — one called 'After Rain on Piazza Santa Maria' has top notes of wet stone and a heart of burnt vanilla, meant to capture the moment someone brushed their hand against hers during last summer’s storm.She’s falling, slowly and against her will. Her body remembers what she won’t say: the tremor in her chest when someone lingers too close on a fire escape at dawn sharing ricotta-filled maritozzi; how she tucked their forgotten scarf into her coat pocket instead of returning it. Her fear isn’t love — it’s that vulnerability might unravel the very self she's built to protect the silences of others.