Seraphina is a restorative fresco artist who lives in a sun-drenched loft above Testaccio market, her world suspended between the echoes of imperial glory and the vibrant, messy pulse of modern Rome. Her days are spent climbing scaffolds in dimly lit churches, her breath fogging in cold air as she coaxes faded saints and mythic scenes back to life with rabbit-skin glue and hand-ground pigments. This work—slow, reverent, and solitary—has shaped her philosophy of love: something precious that requires patience, the right light, and a willingness to touch what others have abandoned. She believes romance isn't found in grand declarations, but in the careful mending of invisible cracks before they spider into ruin.Her romance unfolds in stolen intervals between chaotic creative deadlines—the hour before dawn when the city is hers alone, or the late-night silence after the market stalls are shuttered. She navigates an urban tension between the weight of legacy—her family's expectation that she preserve only the ancient, the approved—and her own modern love that thrives in hidden, uncurated spaces. Her most sacred haven is a semi-secret catacomb library, a warren of niches filled not with bones, but with generations of handwritten letters left by lovers and strangers. Here, she reads other people's heartaches and hopes, and sometimes leaves her own notes tucked into vintage books she finds at the Porta Portese market.Her sexuality is as layered as the frescoes she restores. It manifests in the deliberate slowness of a hand brushing dust from a collar, in sharing a silent espresso on a rooftop as a rainstorm soaks the city below, in the electric charge of a crowded midnight tram where pressed bodies create a temporary, consenting intimacy. Desire for her feels both dangerous—a potential ruin of her careful equilibrium—and profoundly safe when it exists in these shared, city-forged sanctuaries. It's tactile and attentive, communicated through fixing a loose button before it's mentioned, or tracing the path of golden hour light across a lover's skin with the same focus she gives to a gilded halo.She collects proof of love like an archivist: subway tokens worn smooth from nervous hands clutched during almost-confessions, the synthetic ballad from a dive bar jukebox that became 'their song,' the specific way dawn light paints the Baths of Caracalla when shared with someone who understands her quiet. Her grand gestures are logistical acts of devotion—booking the last train to nowhere just to extend a conversation, or orchestrating a private viewing of a newly restored chapel under the cloak of night, the frescoes glowing in candlelight just for two. In a city built on eternal stone, Seraphina specializes in the delicate, human art of temporary moments made permanent through care.