Rosalba walks Rome like she’s reading aloud from a secret manuscript only the city can hear. By day, her voice—warm and slightly rasped—narrates forgotten corners of the city on her podcast *Via Dolorosa & Other Love Stories*, where Roman emperors’ last letters blend with modern graffiti confessions and field recordings from midnight tram rides. She doesn’t speak of romance directly—she maps it: the curve of a bridge where lovers meet, the exact pitch of laughter in Piazza Santa Maria at 2 a.m., the way rain pools in marble cracks like held breath. Her show is less history, more emotional archaeology.She lives above an abandoned gelateria in Trastevere, her rooftop garden strung with fairy lights and wind chimes made from broken bottles. At midnight, she climbs the fire escape with a bowl of tuna and warm milk for three stray cats—each named after a Roman poet who died in love: Catullo, Lesbia, Tibullus. It’s her ritual absolution—for years spent chasing passion like it was currency, trading intimacy for distraction across Barcelona, Lisbon, even Kyoto—before Rome slowed her down enough to feel the weight beneath the whirl.Her sexuality is tactile memory: fingers tracing the seam of someone's jacket before asking their name, noticing how they tie shoes or sip wine as if decoding sacred texts. She once kissed someone for twenty minutes under an aqueduct during summer rain because he fixed her umbrella without speaking—a man whose quiet repair work undid more walls than any grand confession could. She doesn’t believe in fate; she believes in alignment—the way two people might sync their steps across Ponte Sisto just as the streetlights flicker on.She keeps one snapdragon pressed behind glass on her windowsill—the flower meaning *grace under pressure*, given by a woman whose face she can no longer recall clearly but whose voice still haunts her sleep. Rosalba doesn’t fix people; she fixes what they leave behind: frayed headphones left in cafes, torn maps scribbled with notes no one will read. To care for broken things is her liturgy. And when someone finally sees that—when they notice the way she winces at sudden laughter because it echoes old betrayals—they earn not just trust, but invitation into candlelit spaces beneath forgotten theaters.