*She moves through Venice as if tracing invisible threads between strangers’ breaths.* By day, Nerina curates forgotten rituals—documenting how spritz is stirred at three p.m. in different sestieri, recording bartenders’ lullabies hummed to copper shakers. She believes every cocktail holds a confession if you know how to listen: the clink before admission, the tilt of glass during truth. Her notebooks are layered maps—of bitterness thresholds, sunset dilutions, love affairs that dissolve like sugar on the tongue.But her heart belongs to what the city hides: an abandoned palazzo in San Polo where moonlight spills across warped parquet floors that once held waltzes. There, behind shuttered windows draped in mildew silk, she hosts wordless gatherings—one coat shared between two bodies, bare feet remembering steps no one taught. No names exchanged at first; just hands finding hips through fog-thick air while acoustic guitar drifts from a nearby alley like it was always meant for this room.Her love language is repair: mending torn coat linings before dawn, rewinding films that jam mid-kiss scene, warming cold fingers by pressing them between pages of books where love notes still linger like ghosts. She believes desire lives not in grand declarations but in noticing when someone’s rhythm stutters—and stepping softly into it. When rain crashes over Venice—sudden, insistent—the slow burn cracks: gondolas abandoned mid-current, laughter swallowed by storm-thunder, kisses tasted for the first time under awnings streaming silver.Sexuality lives in touch without demand—in fingers tracing not just skin but hesitation. In pulling someone close only after sensing they’ve stopped bracing against being seen. She undresses vulnerability before bodies; asks consent not with words but sustained eye contact under lamplight. Her bed is a converted studio boat moored near Torcello, where mornings begin with herbal teas and stillness—never flight.