Very little is known about Viola Fossati. That’s part of the problem, and part of the pull.

If you were looking for easy comparisons, you might call her the Nick Drake of Northern Italy, but that only works if you strip away the expectation of neat songs, gentle melancholy, and tidy endings. Viola’s work is rougher than that - it’s stranger. She is less interested in performance and more concerned with truth in sound.

Viola Fossati was born in the early 1940s, likely in Genoa, Italy. Her early recordings, placed sometime between 1975 and 1985, were when she was already well into adulthood. She started making music late, quietly and alone.

This was a strange window in history. It was the dawn of the home recordist, when multitrack cassette machines were newly affordable. Reel-to-reel still hummed in private rooms, and an underground cassette culture bloomed in the shadows of official studios. It was suddenly possible to record everything, if you were willing to learn how. That's what Viola did.

Her recordings are not polished, and many aren’t even finished. They are fragments of voice, breath, environmental sound, tape hiss, and loops that don’t quite resolve.

When there is melody, it drifts. When there is rhythm, it feels almost accidental. She cared less about structure and more about capturing moments of unity between herself, the land, and whatever else might be listening or playing along.

She used instruments like piano, guitar, and the occasional synthesizer, but never in a way that feels performative. If she touched a synth, it leaned closer to the West Coast modular experimentation than anything song-like. Field recordings mattered more: wind through trees, water, footsteps, animal chatter, natural silence. She didn’t necessarily want it to be understood, she wanted it to be sat with, experienced.

Viola likely came from wealth. Old money, perhaps. It is surmised that her father worked in a heavy industry - like shipbuilding, factories, metalworks. She once wrote of trying to escape “the maddening thumping of machines, the screeching of metal, the voices that never stop.”

She believed the money that sustained her was tainted. “Blood money,” she called it. If she could, she would have lived outdoors entirely. Her need to record sound kept pulling her back inside, to the machines she both relied on and distrusted.

Unmarried, childless, no siblings, and her parents distant - in her mid-to-late thirties, she moved into the family’s old mansion in Piedmont. Villa Fossati sat on the edge of a small town with barely a hundred inhabitants.

Viola didn’t integrate or attend local gatherings. Children were told not to go near the property, and neighbors reported strange noises at night. A woman wandering barefoot through the woods with microphones. Animals inside the house. Her myth grew.

Viola’s connection to nature went beyond admiration. She wrote about losing herself in forests, bathing in rivers, touching trees until time slipped. To an outsider, she might have looked possessed, erratic, ecstatic, and unmoored. To Viola, these moments gave her clarity.

She knew plants intimately, and learned to survive long stretches without supplies. She hunted and fished, a skill learned from her father and one of the few memories of him she held onto without bitterness.

She recorded obsessively, splicing tape herself and creating loops alone in her room. She worked with limited, expensive equipment not because it was fashionable, but because she felt it was necessary.

For decades after her disappearance, Viola’s work went unheard.

What survives of Viola Fossati is incomplete by nature. That’s why Vincent finds this assignment so compelling, and somewhat familiar in its incompleteness. For the first time in years, he isn’t just restoring someone else’s art.

Viola recorded something uncanny. What happened after that is harder to say.

We can finally announce that our new game, Imprinted, is a ghost story about creativity - it’s about two musical worlds colliding, about the discovery of a forgotten artist and the past she left behind, and about a presence that feeds on doubt, obsession, and the darker thoughts we try to ignore. It’s a psychological thriller told through a fake operating system, where emails, audio files, chat logs, and corrupted recordings become the story itself.

And Vincent Brandt is how you experience it:

• You sit at his workstation.

• You open his files.

• You read his messages.

• You listen to what he tried to forget.

Vincent Brandt is the kind of age where people stop counting and start measuring time in projects. He’s quiet, precise, and deeply absorbed in his work. Reliable. The person you call when something important needs to be handled carefully.

Vincent built a reputation as the go-to professional for audio restoration. His skill set is niche and strange by necessity: music recordings, damaged film audio, forensic sound work, historical research. Anything that requires listening closely to what’s been lost. His clients reflect that: archivists, filmmakers, estates, people with boxes of tapes they don’t know what to do with anymore, and lawmakers.

Technology has always been part of his life. As a kid in the late 80s and early 90s, Vincent recorded everything he could with a cheap consumer tape recorder: street noise, radio fragments, conversations, accidental music. When the world moved to digital, he followed easily. He understands tape not because he worked with it professionally, but because he watched it degrade, stretch, warp, and decay over time.

What Vincent doesn’t talk about is the music on his own hard drive. It’s all there if you dig deep enough: unfinished songs, fragments of lyrics, album covers for records that were never made, guitar riffs that stop just short of becoming something real. Some tracks are complete. Most aren’t. He treats these files with a certain disdain. They aren’t backed up. They aren’t catalogued. Sometimes he hopes they’ll just disappear on their own.

Vincent restores other people’s work meticulously, but his own creative output is something he often avoids looking at too closely.

Relationships have come and gone, often dissolving as his focus on work crowded out everything else. Communication didn’t come easily. Feelings were harder to archive than files. Over time, even those relationships were stored away mentally, handled like assignments that had simply... ended.

There was a more colorful version of Vincent once. You can still find traces of him in old messages, forgotten folders, half-remembered jokes. But most of those connections have thinned with time. What remains is the work.

Underneath all of it, something has been building - a quiet resentment, a longing for what Vincent considers real artistry. He brushes the dust off other people’s creations day after day, while feeling trapped in an artisan’s loop: useful, skilled, invisible. Loving sound and music deeply, yet starting to feel jaded.

When Vincent accepts one last restoration job, the recordings of a mysterious 1970s musician named Viola Fossati, he believes it’s just another assignment. Another archive. Another set of files to clean, label, and return.

He’s wrong.

More soon.