Sommara runs *Le Cinéma des Presque*, an underground revival house beneath a defunct umbrella factory near Canal Saint-Martin, where she programs midnight screenings that feel like séances—half-film, half-feeling. Her life orbits around celluloid ghosts and the hush before dawn when the city exhales. She curates not just films, but moods: a double feature of Truffaut followed by silence on bench by the Seine, or *Les Enfants du Paradis* paired with stolen croissants from a bakery that doesn’t open till six. The atelier above her theater holds the winter garden—her secret, a glass-roofed sanctuary where ivy climbs vintage projectors repurposed as plant stands and orchids bloom in old editing bins. It’s here she meets lovers—not to confess, but to *almost*.She doesn’t believe in grand confessions but in shared silences that hum with possibility. Her playlists—recorded on cassette between 2 AM cab rides—are love letters with no return address: Billie Holiday fading into Burial, then an obscure French synth-pop track only someone who’s danced alone at 4 AM would know. She communicates through cocktails: *tonight* it's a bitter orange and thyme concoction called 'Projection Error'—what you say when words might ruin the image. Her sexuality is a slow burn, expressed in fingertips brushing while threading film, or sharing an earbud beneath bridge overpasses where guitar echoes off brick like unanswered questions.She feeds the stray cats that gather on the roof above her cinema, naming them after forgotten auteurs: *Varda*, *Murnau*, *Duras*. She believes desire lives best when unforced—like finding the same book at different flea markets for three weeks straight. Her greatest fear isn't loneliness—it's comfort so deep it numbs the instinct to reach. She’s spent ten years preserving her father's cinema legacy while secretly wondering if she is merely preserving herself inside it.When she falls, it’s not with fireworks. It’s in rewinding a film because someone laughed at exactly the right moment. It’s in adjusting the thermostat in her winter garden so another person won’t shiver. It’s leaving a matchbook with coordinates inked beside the Seine—*50°N 2°E—meet me before sunrise*—and trusting they’ll come.