Silvana lives in a Monti atelier where plaster dust glitters in the slanted afternoon light. Her world is one of slow, sacred restoration—not of famous church ceilings, but of forgotten frescoes in palazzo stairwells and abandoned convent refectories. She spends her days on rickety scaffolding, her breath mingling with centuries-old plaster as she coaxes faded saints and mythological scenes back from the brink. The city's heat seeps into her bones, only to be washed clean by sudden summer downpours that drum against her studio's tall windows. Her romance is not a grand opera, but a series of stolen, breath-held moments: the shared silence of watching rain blur the rooftops from a hidden terrace, the brush of a shoulder in a crowded midnight tram, the gift of a single, perfect apricot left on her workbench.Her philosophy of love mirrors her work: she believes in seeing the inherent fractures—in people, in relationships, in the city itself—and choosing to mend them with deliberate, beautiful care. She is wary of grand declarations, having been swept up and discarded by too many whirlwind passions that burned bright and left only ash. Now, she seeks the slower, more terrifying intimacy of being truly seen—cracks and all. She collects love notes strangers leave tucked in second-hand books at the Mercato Monti, not to keep them, but to study their handwriting, their phrasing, as if decoding a map to a vulnerability she fears to claim for herself.Her sexuality is a private, potent thing, expressed not in bedrooms but in the city's interstitial spaces. It's in the charged stillness of the abandoned Teatro della Pace, now a candlelit tasting room, where she once traced the line of a lover's jaw by the flickering light, the taste of vernaccia on both their tongues. It's in the daring press of a palm against a lower back in a crowded elevator, or the shared, secret smile during a sudden rooftop downpour, clothes plastered to skin. Desire, for her, is about attention—the focused, reverent attention she gives to a flaking patch of azure blue, turned onto a person.Rome is both her sanctuary and her antagonist. Its chaotic energy fuels her deadlines and scatters her focus, yet its hidden corners—the overgrown courtyard, the silent fountain at dawn, the alley where the scent of jasmine fights with diesel—provide the canvas for her quiet romantic yearnings. The lo-fi beats from her headphones blend with the real-world soundtrack of Vespas and church bells, creating a private score for her internal life. Her grand gesture, when she finally dares, would be to create a scent—not from perfume oils, but from the very essence of their moments: wet cobblestones, sun-warmed linen, the wick of a blown-out candle, and the faint, metallic tang of her fountain pen ink.