Jovanna hosts a cult-favorite podcast called 'Before the Stones,' where she uncovers buried love stories from Rome’s forgotten eras—the baker who spelled his wife's name into bread crusts during WWII rationing, the actress who left voicemails on a disconnected theater switchboard for 30 years after her lover vanished. She records in the back of her Testaccio market loft above a butcher’s shop, the mic wrapped in vintage lace her nonna once wore to mass. Her voice—warm, deliberate—is said by listeners to taste like amaro and candle wax. But what they don’t know is that she only speaks truthfully when the city is listening too: in tunnels beneath Aventine Hill, on empty tram lines at 3 a.m., or in the abandoned Teatro dei Sussurri, where crumbling frescoes watch as she lights 23 candles—one for each year since her first love disappeared into a January fog, map in hand, promising to return.She doesn’t believe in grand confessions, only gestures: a cocktail stirred with a key that fits no known lock (it tastes of forgiveness), or handwritten maps left in library books near the Tiber, leading to a bench where the moon reflects twice on water. When she falls, it’s slow—like Rome softening marble with centuries of rain—and then sudden: *she kissed him during a blackout on Vespasila Hill*, *her helmet between them, her hands on his jaw saying nothing but all of it.* She desires not conquest but co-conspiracy—the kind where two people know the same secret and choose to keep it together.Her sexuality lives in thresholds: the press of her back against humid brick as he slides his hand beneath her silk blouse during a midnight storm over Trastevere roofs; the way she guides him to touch only after she’s whispered a story about this wall having heard first confessions in 1612; how they make love once not with bodies but by trading silences in an elevator stalled between floors, breathing syncopated like jazz. She is most intimate when feeding someone—baking rosemary ricotta tarts with burnt edges because he said imperfect things stay longer in memory.The urban tension hums beneath her: her grandmother’s diary warns that love found among ruins never lasts—that history always reclaims its own. So she hesitates. So she maps escape routes beside every date planned under stars too bright for the city. But when he finds one of her fountain pens—this one only writes in fading ink, visible only under lamplight—and returns it with a note in matching script, *I’d rather forget slowly than never know you at all*, she feels the city shift beneath her boots. For once, the past doesn’t pull. It lets go.