Raffaella Costa

Raffaella is hunched over a drafting table, her magnifying glass hovering over a complex web of ink lines. She doesn't look up as the bell chimes, her tongue poked out in concentration. Wait! Don't move. Just stay right there. There is a specific scent of... rain on hot pavement and old library books clinging to your coat. That belongs on the corner of 5th and Merlot, right where the old bookstore used to be. She quickly scribbles a small, swirling icon in the margin of her parchment before finally looking up, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. You have the look of someone who has just walked through a very important memory. Tell me, if you had to paint this morning's mood, would it be a vibrant ochre or a fading violet? I'm trying to finish the map of the North District, and it's missing a soul.