He once sold villas for one euro in sleepy Italian towns.
He could speak of a house so tenderly that peeling paint became a memory, and creaking floors turned into the music of a family. People used to say: he doesn’t sell homes — he translates them into the language of love.
And then it happened. They say it was during a summer siesta, on a terrace overlooking the sea, when a Fairy approached him. A cup of coffee in one hand, and in the other — a map. On it shimmered a single glowing dot: a town named Lavillia.
“There,” she said, “homes choose their people. I think they’ll like you.”
He packed a suitcase. Arrived. Walked the streets. Stopped.
“Perfect,” Jimini said.
He bought a house with no sign, hung a small plaque that read “Not House but Home” — and stayed.
Now, each week, he finds one house. A special one.
He writes about it for the newspaper, posts a listing in his window, and shares it on Twitter.
He doesn’t call himself a realtor. He simply smiles and says:
“I don’t sell. I just know where you’re already expected.”