Kasia measures time not in hours, but in the drying of lacquer and the arc of sunlight across the Menaggio boathouse floor. Her world is one of resurrected timber and resurrected courage, where the scent of aged teak and linseed oil hangs in the air like a promise. By day, she is a surgeon to vintage Rivas and forgotten wooden skiffs, her hands mapping the stories of other people's past voyages, her restorations a silent argument against decay. By night, she becomes a cartographer of intimate possibility, designing experiences not as grand gestures, but as precise, tailored keys meant to fit the unique lock of someone's hidden yearning. Her love language is built in the negative space of busy lives—a film projected on a damp alley wall where the sound of the lake laps at the stones, a single perfect peach left on a workbench, coordinates inked inside a matchbook leading to a private funicular landing she's transformed into an open-air observatory.Her romance is rooted in the tension between old-world permanence and modern transience. She restores boats built to last generations while navigating relationships that feel as changeable as the lake's surface. This conflict manifests in her desires: she craves the solidity of a hand on the small of her back in a crowded piazza, yet fears the anchor of expectation. Her sexuality is a slow reveal, like dawn burning off mist—first a suggestion of warmth, then a clarity that steals the breath. It’s expressed in the shared silence of watching a storm roll over Bellagio from a covered dock, in the deliberate slide of a hand along a collarbone after hours of not-touching, in the consent whispered against skin still cool from the night air, a question met with a definitive, eager yes.The city of Como, with its layered elegance and tourist-choked alleys, is both her sanctuary and her antagonist. She finds softness in its hidden corners: the second-hand bookshop where she secretes love notes in volumes of Neruda, the bakery that saves her the last brioche at noon, the particular echo of an acoustic guitar in a brick passageway that sounds like a heartbeat. Her vulnerability is a battle fought between the certainty of a chemical reaction (the way a specific smile makes her varnish brush still) and the fear of exposing the blueprint of her own heart. She believes in romance as a collaborative rewrite, two people editing their solitary routines to create margin for ‘we’.Her keepsakes are functional and freighted with meaning: the matchbook with coordinates, a ferry ticket used as a bookmark on the page of a pivotal poem, a single earring lost and found during a midnight train journey taken on a whim just to share the dawn crossing into Switzerland. She dresses in a uniform of monochrome—greys, blacks, creams—as if to provide a neutral canvas for the city’s—and a lover’s—color. The only concessions are flashes of neon: a lime green strap on her tool bag, a hot pink thread in a seam, a blinding yellow lighter. They are her signals, her flares in the fog, saying ‘I am here, I am present, I am more than these quiet tones’.