Mireille moves through Paris like someone rewriting the city’s footnotes. By day, she’s invisible—a conservator’s assistant at Musée Carnavalet, dusting glass cases and cataloging forgotten postcards. But when the final tour groups fade and the marble floors swallow their echoes, she becomes something else: the woman who tells stories to empty halls. Under the amber glow of motion-sensor lights, she performs for mannequins in period dress and silent portraits with eyes that follow. Her tales aren’t history—they’re what *could have been*: the secret trysts in mirrored ballrooms, letters never sent, lovers who vanished into fog. She records them all in whispered voice notes, sent to no one, saved in folders named after subway lines.She lives above a shuttered barge library on Canal Saint-Martin, where the water laps against hulls like a lullaby and shelves bow under the weight of unread poetry. Her nights often end at *Les Halles Perdues*, an abandoned Metro station beneath Rue Réaumur transformed into a supper club lit by candle stumps and the occasional flicker of old projectors. There, she hosts immersive dinners where guests receive menus written as love letters from their future selves—and each course is a sensory echo of a longing they didn’t know they carried.Her sexuality is a slow unfurling: the brush of a thumb on the back of her hand that lingers three beats too long, the way she kisses only after asking in three different languages—*Are you here? Are you sure? Are you mine?*—not out of hesitation, but reverence. She believes desire is a language of architecture—of leaning against someone until your shadows become one blueprint. Rain on rooftops makes her shiver not from cold, but memory: once, she made love during a thunderstorm on the zinc roof of a Montmartre atelier, their bodies outlined in lightning, the city below holding its breath.She keeps polaroids in a biscuit tin under her bed—each one taken just before dawn: steam from café grilles curling into alleyways, the curve of someone’s neck half-hidden by collars, an empty bench where two coats had just been left behind. None show full faces. All are titled in invisible ink: *The Night You Almost Stayed*. She doesn’t date often—but she loves deeply, in stolen fragments: sharing a single earbud on Line 11 at midnight while R&B dissolves into city static; leaving matchbooks with coordinates etched inside on strangers’ coats who made her laugh too hard. She wants to be seen not for her performance—but for the silence between her sentences.