She took a step forward. Suddenly, a newspaper flew wildly through the air and landed right on her face.
"Ahhk…" she groaned, pulling it away. The headline read: "Milan 2005: Next Level."
Carolina was waiting for the bus at the stop. Her car tire had just gone flat after running over something sharp.
"Come on, lift it, lift it! Why is everything so difficult today, God? I have to finish my assignment," she muttered in frustration.
She glanced up at the sky, now heavy with dark clouds. It looked like rain was coming. Carolina looked back at her phone, and not long after, the bus she had been waiting for finally arrived.
She stepped inside immediately, though a strange feeling lingered in her chest.
It's going to rain. I didn't bring anything to protect myself, she thought, already knowing what would happen next.
Still, she didn't care. Her attention returned to her phone, waiting for a reply from someone.
When the bus stopped at her destination, Carolina got off and ran as fast as she could. The high heels she wore didn't seem to slow her down at all. She ignored the pain that might follow.
Just as she turned the corner, the rain poured down.
"Aaaa, oh my God! Please don't ruin my makeup—I woke up early for this!" she complained, covering her head.
At last, she reached her destination: Moda Viva Milano—the fashion museum of Milan, Italy.
Carolina hurried to fix her messy appearance. That was just like her—always attentive to her style.
Her phone vibrated while she was checking her reflection. She quickly answered the call.
"Pedro, I've been waiting for you right in front. Where are you? I've been waiting forever," she said.
"Really? You just got here. I think I've been here longer," the voice on the other end replied.
"That's impossible! I arrived first! And now my makeup is ruined," Carolina complained.
"Try looking behind you," Pedro said.
Suddenly, Carolina realized something. She turned around.
"Ohhh, you!" she shouted, hanging up the call and walking toward the museum entrance.
"Where have you been, Carolina? I've been waiting for you for ages," Pedro said.
"Forget it! My tire just burst out of nowhere. How was I supposed to know? And now my makeup is ruined because of the rain. Today is just unlucky!" Carolina ranted endlessly.
Pedro only laughed at her complaints. Without waiting any longer, they went inside the museum.
"Honestly, Pedro, I'm still confused about which outfit I should choose out of all of these," Carolina said as they walked. "This museum is too big. Everything here is beautiful. All the designers are talented—I don't know which one to pick."
"Ohhh… to be honest, I don't get it either. I'm not a fashion student like you," Pedro teased.
Carolina rolled her eyes and sighed, already used to him.
"That's not the point. I'm not telling you that for advice," she said. "But… don't you think it's very quiet today?"
"Maybe no one's coming," Pedro replied. "It's pouring rain, and it's a busy day. Who would come here?"
"That makes sense," Carolina said. "But that's not what matters. What matters is—which outfit should I choose?"
"Just pick one," Pedro shrugged. "Ah—maybe that one."
"Not that one!" Carolina protested. "Nothing modern. I have to choose something old-fashioned. That's what my lecturer asked for—this is for my final project," she explained.
"Alright then, I was just trying to help," Pedro fell silent. Then he added, "What about that one? That's old, right?" He pointed again.
"Forget it. Your taste is weird," Carolina said, exhausted.
"You said old-fashioned earlier. Isn't that old-fashioned? Besides, all designers are basically the same," Pedro said, confused.
Carolina was tired of arguing with Pedro. Sometimes, she was simply tired of being friends with him at all. Pedro was a little… odd. Still, she needed him to photograph the outfit she would choose. Pedro was a photography student—one Carolina truly depended on. Even though she could afford a camera herself, her photos never turned out as good as Pedro's.
Choosing a single piece of clothing among so many works displayed in the museum was no easy task. There were countless masterpieces, each captivating the eye, making anyone imagine themselves wearing them. The designers had poured thousands of ideas into their creations, and Carolina found herself muttering, unable to decide which outfit to choose.
Eventually, she grew tired of walking around the museum. Pedro, however, was probably far more exhausted. The camera bag on his shoulder felt heavier with every step, making his shoulder ache. He wanted to rest—perhaps sit down for a moment in the middle of the exhibition area.
"Carolina, I'm going to sit for a bit. You can continue searching. Once you find something, just message me and tell me where you are. This bag is seriously heavy," Pedro said, holding his shoulder.
"Ah… yes, I'll contact you later," Carolina replied.
She left her bag beside Pedro, took out a small notebook and a pen. Maybe writing down a few options will help me decide, she thought.
Carolina left Pedro behind and continued exploring the museum on her own. Room after room, corridor after corridor, she walked through them all. With her notebook in hand, she observed and absorbed every garment displayed before her. This was her task.
---
"A deep purple dress, with a large ribbon at the back. It looks like a birthday costume—how fascinating that people dressed like this in the past. This must have been a custom piece for someone who loved a feminine style… Who's the designer?" She leaned closer to read the label. "Ahh… I know this! The Bellandi Sisters. Ellan's designs are known for their captivating femininity, though I thought they leaned more toward coats," she wrote.
She continued her search, hoping to find another piece that would truly captivate her. Yet everything around her was mesmerizing, making the decision even harder.
As usual, Carolina paused, standing still in front of each garment, absorbing every stitch and unique detail. That was always her habit. Then she would begin to imagine herself wearing it—or picture who might be the perfect person to wear it.
"Sapphire blue, with silver chamomile embroidery on the shoulders and wrists… ahh, I know the gossip about this dress! It was worn by actress Teresa Beaumont to hide her pregnancy—though everyone knows now," she noted again.
Carolina walked on, changing corridors, growing slightly irritated by how stunning every dress was. She had already approved several options, and the era she was focusing on was the 1950s—a period that perfectly suited the old-fashioned style she was looking for.
Another corridor greeted her. Pen and notebook ready, she began the process again, just like before.
"Ahhh, my head's starting to ache a little," she murmured, rolling her neck. Then she began writing again, carefully forming each word. It was her way of easing the loneliness, because the museum was truly quiet.
Perhaps there were only a few—There were a few other visitors, perhaps—but still, the emptiness lingered, and the silence felt slightly eerie. The museum lighting was old-fashioned, dim orange lamps that cast a mesmerizing glow. When a dress was touched by that light, it shimmered. Perhaps this was intentional—to prove that the garment belonged in this kind of illumination.
"Erneste Firenze… I like her," Carolina murmured. "Her designs are luxurious. My mother owns several of her pieces. As always—glamorous elegance in rose gold, with polka dots made of pearl-like transparent fabric that reflects light like morning dew. Beautiful, as ever."
She turned into the next corridor.
Displayed clearly before her was a name:
Elio Edoardo Moretti.
"Elio… I know him best," she whispered, rereading her notes to make sure everything was neat and legible. Carolina stopped, stared, and did what she always did.
"Elio Edoardo Moretti—my mother is his biggest fan," she said softly.
And it was true. Maria had always adored Elio.
It all began when Maria was pregnant with Carolina. The De Luca family was overjoyed at the news that they would be welcoming a daughter. In the 1980s, ultrasound technology for determining a baby's gender was not accessible to every family. But as a prominent political family, they certainly could afford it.
When it was confirmed that they were expecting a baby girl, Maria and her mother-in-law—Carolina's grandmother—immediately ordered fashionable maternity wear and baby clothes. At that time, one designer was booming for his designs for pregnant women and infants:
Elio Edoardo Moretti.
That was when Maria fell deeply in love with his creations—his brand, Dolcel, which still stands strong today as one of Italy's major fashion houses. Of course, Dolcel continued to evolve with the times, remaining successful with its signature elegance and artistic presence—like living paintings in motion.
"Why doesn't he create styles like his 1950s designs anymore?" Carolina murmured. "They're breathtaking. Did he lose interest?"
She paused, then continued thinking aloud.
"I don't know… but his work back then was pure art. He never took shortcuts. The stitching, the measurements—everything always fit the body perfectly. The bold colors—anyone wearing this would shine with every step they took. Especially if they had… hmm, light-colored hair. It would suit these tones beautifully."
Elio truly was different. His prime years were extraordinary. The period between the 1950s and 1960s was Carolina's favorite.
"Delicate lace along the neckline and wrists, long sleeves, a slim waistline, a light skirt that falls naturally. Pale gray with soft pink roses—perfect for a young woman with a sweet facial structure," she mused, laughing quietly to herself before moving to the next piece.
"Elio… Elio… I wish you were young again and could design dresses for me," she sighed. "You retired too early, I think. Such beautiful dresses—and you don't make them anymore. Ahh, how disappointing."
She examined another piece.
"An ivory-white outer coat, with dark olive green polka dots for the inner layer and the dress beneath…" She bit the end of her pen. "I want to wear this," she whispered, jotting it down.
"But why are all the waist measurements the same?" she noted. "And did he struggle with shaping the backs of his models? Why do they always look unusual at the back?"
Elio, the legendary designer, was known for his unique approach to the back and hips. Nearly all of his designs carried that unmistakable signature.
"Ahhh… so beautiful. There are so many beautiful pieces here. How did he manage to fit garments so perfectly to his models? Following the body's contours without corsetry—cut directly from plaster body molds? That's amazing."
Carolina swallowed.
"I love the colors—embroidered with platinum threads, forming a mist-like pattern that sweeps upward from the hem."
"I'm tired of talking… what should I do now?" she murmured, still writing, then lifting her gaze once more to the garment before her.
So beautiful.
So captivating—every stitch sewn with devotion.
A life lived entirely for this.
This was creation.
This was art.
And this… was Elio Edoardo.
Carolina turned back to the previous garment—its beauty unchanged, still unmatched. Then she looked again at the one before her, just as stunning as before. Slowly, she began to absorb it more deeply. As exquisite as these dresses were in their time, it was no wonder he was now the owner of Dolcel.
Then something struck her.
Her brow furrowed.
"Wait… that's strange," she murmured.
She looked at the dress beside it—one she had not yet examined.
"Strange again."
Then back to the one in front of her.
"Strange… again."
What was this?
"So strange… what does this mean? All the measurements are the same?" She frowned. "If I imagine them side by side… am I just exhausted from writing about too many beautiful garments in this museum? Maybe."
She scratched her head.
"But why do all the body shapes feel odd? Oh right… the hips, too. I mentioned earlier that they felt difficult—was he struggling? Or was this done intentionally?"
She bit the end of her pen, confused.
Turning to the right—her expression remained the same.
Turning to the left—still the same.
"This is strange… why are all the sizes identical?"
Carolina began writing down everything she noticed about the designer whose work now felt like a mystery to her.
"Designer: Elio Edoardo Moretti. Owner of Dolcel. His 1950s era is undeniably breathtaking and beautiful. However, irregularities appear in several garments—these designs seem intended for only one body type, reinforced by unusual stitching around the hip area?" she wrote carefully.
She looked back at the dresses again.
Not long after, she remembered Pedro.
She immediately called him.
---
"Which corridor are you in, Carolina?" Pedro asked.
"I don't remember," she replied. "But I'm standing right in front of a corridor—wait…" She glanced up and read the sign. "You—read every corridor name. Are you near the one labeled Elio Edoardo Moretti? Which name are you standing under?"
Pedro stopped and looked up.
"I'm currently in front of… uh—Étienne Vallois. Yes, that one. I'm right here."
Carolina realized Pedro was close—probably lost among the many corridors. She hurried into a light jog to find him.
When she reached him, she grabbed Pedro without warning.
"Hey—!" Pedro was startled, confused, but he followed along anyway. That was Carolina—once she decided on something, she acted.
"So this is what you meant?" Pedro asked, staring at the garments before them.
"I'm not sure," Carolina admitted. "I just feel like it's unique. But honestly, I still don't know what to choose."
"You're kidding me, Carolina!" Pedro exclaimed. "You told me to photograph this, and you're still unsure? So what is it—do I shoot it or not?"
"Just take the photos," Carolina replied quickly.
"Alright… the work is beautiful, though. Unique. But why is it so dark in this section?" Pedro muttered as he began photographing Elio's designs.
"They're all beautiful, Pedro. But these feel different," Carolina said, stepping closer.
"What do you mean by different?" Pedro moved to another garment. "Do you want me to photograph all of them?" He glanced at her. "That's okay, right?"
"Sure… as long as you treat me after this," Pedro teased.
"You're impossible—just take the pictures!" Carolina snapped.
"By the way, what makes these so unique?" Pedro asked as the sound of the camera shutter echoed through the corridor. "They just look beautiful to me. Then again, I'm not a fashion student."
"I can't say for sure," Carolina replied. "But if you look closely, Pedro—every curve of these garments, all the way to the hips, feels like it was molded for a single body."
"Ahh, that's just your imagination," Pedro interrupted. "All clothes are made from mannequins or models anyway. That's normal."
Carolina scoffed.
"That's not what I mean."
She suddenly grabbed Pedro's camera.
"Hey—what are you doing?!" Pedro gasped.
"Look at this," Carolina said, pointing. "If you pay close attention, why does every stitch around the hip area why does it feel so strange?" Carolina continued. "It's as if he deliberately created an irregularity in the back of the hip area. At first, I thought it was a mistake, but the longer you look at it, the more you realize—it was intentional. And wouldn't most people feel uncomfortable wearing something shaped like this? I mean, why would he do that? Wouldn't it make the dress unsellable? Unless—unless whoever wore it already had a body shaped exactly like this," Carolina explained carefully.
Pedro began to understand. Her explanation made sense. He continued photographing several more garments while Carolina stood behind him, biting her fingers—nervous, confused. So many questions raced through her mind, yet they only made her heart pound harder with curiosity.
Why were those dresses made that way?
That question haunted Carolina throughout her time in the museum.
---
Carolina remained mesmerized by Elio Edoardo's work—the owner of Dolcel. It wasn't just the beauty of the garments anymore; she now felt there was a mystery hidden within them. What did it all mean? That feeling lingered, following her even into her sleep.
In her dream, Carolina met Elio.
"You know those dresses were made for only one purpose," Elio said, leaving Carolina confused.
"What do you mean? I always thought your designs carried a special story behind them," Carolina replied, standing frozen.
"Ahhh, Carolina, you think too much. Did I really make them that way? If so, you must think I'm some kind of mysterious designer now. But is there nothing beyond that reason?" Elio asked.
Carolina shook her head, tense. "I… I don't know. Maybe it's just my imagination, but honestly, I don't understand what you're saying," she replied.
"Of course you don't. This isn't real," Elio said, deepening her confusion.
"What do you mean? What is all of this?" Carolina looked around—everything was black.
"Then search for the mystery you wish to uncover. Mysterious art. Dresses behind glass…" Elio said, stepping away.
"Wait!" Carolina shouted, chasing after him.
Then—
"AHHH!" Carolina fell off her bed.
"Ouch—my butt! What a ridiculous dream… and yet, it felt disturbingly real," she groaned, rubbing herself.
It was a dream.
She had dreamed of Elio—his words unclear, his presence unsettling. In the museum and even in her dreams, the mystery of Elio remained the same.
She glanced at the clock. It was already noon.
With a frown, Carolina got up, her mind still crowded with questions about Elio—the designer who had sparked her curiosity so deeply.
---
In the middle of her lecture, the image of Elio Edoardo Moretti continued to haunt Carolina. She felt as if she were being carried away by a current—the lecturer's words sounded like a broken radio, fading into echoes of her own thoughts.
She rested her cheek against her hand, staring forward, yet her gaze drifted far away.
"Carolina…" a voice called.
"Carolina… Carolina… CAROLINA!"
Only after the third call did she snap back.
"Ah—yes… sorry," she replied, realizing it was her lecturer eventually, her attention returned to the lecturer, though Elio still lingered somewhere in the back of her mind.
A few hours later—
"Alright, that's all for today. We'll continue tomorrow," the lecturer said, closing the book.
The students began packing their belongings, preparing to leave the classroom. Carolina did the same. As she gathered her things, her pen slipped from her hand and fell to the floor.
She sighed in annoyance and bent down to pick it up.
At that exact moment—
"Carolina!" a voice called out.
"Ahh—!" Carolina jumped, hitting her head on the desk beside her.
"Ow… y-yes?" she replied, wincing.
"Carolina, is something bothering you today?" the voice asked.
"Ah… Professor Silvani," she said, rubbing her head.
"Are you alright?" Professor Silvani asked, studying her face.
"Me? Of course I'm fine. Who said I wasn't?" Carolina deflected quickly.
"Hmm… I thought something might be wrong," he said. "Oh, by the way, most of your classmates have already submitted their ideas. Have you found yours?"
Carolina hesitated. She wasn't sure—but she had to answer.
"Professor Silvani, honestly, I'm not entirely sure if this idea will work. I think I'm interested in Elio Edoardo Moretti's works—his 1950s period, his prime—but I'm still uncertain," she explained.
"That's an excellent choice," Professor Silvani said. "Elio is indeed remarkable—the owner of Dolcel. I remember seeing him on television once. Ah… it feels like stepping back into the past. But tell me, why are you unsure?"
"Well…" Carolina hesitated. "Professor Silvani, I feel like it would be better if I could complete this project with direct documentation involving Elio himself. I know it sounds ridiculous, but wouldn't that be better? And I know—he must be very old by now—but that's just what I thought," she said, laughing awkwardly.
"Carolina… if you believe that's a good idea, then do it," Professor Silvani said gently. "What are you planning? If only I had connections to Elio, I'd help you—but unfortunately, I don't. His family is very private. He withdrew from the media long ago. He has only one child who now continues the business, and that child is known for being strict and anti-media as well. It's a pity."
"Oh, I don't want to trouble you," Carolina replied. "I think I'll try on my own. I'm planning to send a letter to his house. That's the only option I know, since I have his address—even though it's far from Milan. But I think it's worth trying. If I get rejected, I still have backup designers. Still… my main focus is Dolcel."
Carolina explained her plan in detail to Professor Silvani—every step, every consideration—until she finally received his approval. Though uncertain, her reasoning made sense. It felt like a fifty-fifty gamble: if it failed, the mystery would remain buried. If it succeeded… well, it almost felt impossible anyway.
Just try first, she thought.
And just like that, Carolina began carrying out her plan that very afternoon.
---
In her room, Carolina kept typing her letter to Elio Edoardo. So many words were deleted—again and again—as she struggled to find the most careful phrasing, something that might catch Elio's attention and convince him to accept her request.
In the eyes of the media, Elio was known as an elegant designer—but also one sensitive to certain matters. That fact alone made her even more nervous as she wrote.
"No… not that either," she muttered.
A knock came at the door.
"Miss Carolina, I'm sorry to disturb you, but your grandmother and grandfather are waiting for you in the dining room. Dinner is ready," the servant said from outside.
She realized it was already night. How long had she been in her room, typing a letter that never seemed to reach its end?
"Ah… yes, just tell them I'll eat later," she replied.
"But, Miss, your grandfather doesn't want to start dinner without you," the servant explained. "He said you've already missed too many meals with him."
Carolina took a deep breath, her gaze fixed on the door.
"Alright. I'll come downstairs."
She stood up immediately, bringing her laptop with her.
In the dining room, with its long, oversized table occupied by only three people, the atmosphere felt painfully quiet. The length of the table made the emptiness even more apparent.
"Carolina, are you alright at school?" her grandmother, Livia, asked gently. "Is there something troubling you, dear?"
"Um… no, I think I'm fine," Carolina replied while taking a bite of her food—then returning to typing.
"Have you been chasing deadlines lately?" Livia asked again, worry creeping into her voice. "Is the assignment that difficult?"
"No, Grandma, really, I'm fine. Just a little… work," Carolina said, trying to reassure her.
Livia nodded, still concerned—but not because Carolina looked busy.
Her unease came from the laptop Carolina had brought to the table, placed right in front of her grandfather, Cesare, who had been watching her in silence, his cutlery clenched in his hands, unmoving.
Carolina noticed.
"Come on, Grandpa, why aren't you eating?" she said, smiling. "You were the one who wanted me to join dinner."
"Well then, I'll start eating first," she added, repeating herself.
"I have told you not to bring work to the dining table," a cold voice interrupted. "When you're eating with family."
Carolina froze. She stopped eating immediately, lifted her laptop, and asked the servant to take it away.
"I'm sorry. I forgot," she said quietly.
Cesare shook his head, then finally began eating. Livia, who had been tense moments ago, relaxed at last.
"Thank goodness. Please, let this not happen again," Livia said softly. "I love you, Carolina, but I've told everyone in this family—work has no place at the dinner table. Especially not when we're together as a family."
Carolina knew her grandfather well. Once Cesare believed a mistake—big or small—had been made, he would repeat himself endlessly. So much so that she could recite his lectures by heart.
Cesare De Luca would always say that this was his house, that he had been generous, that even in his old age he was still the head of the family, and that he loved her—of course he did. That was just how he was.
Still, being with her grandparents was far better than being with her parents.
These days, Carolina rarely returned home. It all began when her parents, Leonardo and Maria, were shocked to learn that their daughter wanted to become a designer. They had dreamed of her becoming a doctor—or at least someone elegant, suitable to be a housewife in an arranged marriage.
But Carolina refused.
And so she ended up living with Livia and Cesare—her second parents, whom she loved dearly, despite their age.
Dinner eventually ended, and Carolina returned to her room, once again facing her unfinished letter to Elio Edoardo.
The clock now showed midnight, yet she still had no good idea.
Not long after, there was another knock at the door.
"The servant again? What does Grandpa want now?" she muttered, standing and walking toward the door.
Click.
"Yes…?" she said.
"I noticed you're still awake," a familiar voice said. "From upstairs, I could see your bedroom light still on. Why aren't you sleeping, Carolina? It's already very late. Is your university assignment really that difficult?"
It was Livia.
"Let me come in."
"Goodness gracious, Grandma, alright," Carolina sighed as they both entered the room.
Livia sat on the sofa near the window, occasionally glancing at her granddaughter, who was still not finished with her work. After a moment, she stood and walked closer.
"Carolina, how difficult is this assignment of yours?" she asked.
"It's not that difficult, I think," Carolina replied without looking up. "You should go back to sleep, Grandma. Grandpa will scold me again if you stay awake because of me."
"Oh, let him be," Livia said lightly. "It's not just you he scolds. He scolds me too—especially about your father opposing him." She pulled a chair closer.
Carolina heard everything. She knew there had always been tension within her family, but she forced herself to stay focused on finishing her studies.
"I'll talk to Father later," Carolina said quietly.
"No need," Livia waved it off. "This is between a father and his child—let it be. Besides, I'm already exhausted dealing with Leonardo. Even when your brother wants to marry, what business does he have forbidding his own child? It gives me a headache," she muttered, shaking her head, then looking back at Carolina.
"What are you actually doing?" Livia asked.
"This… um… this is my assignment. I'm writing a letter," Carolina replied.
"I didn't know fashion students had assignments involving letters," Livia said, trying to recall the fashion world.
"No, Grandma, this isn't from school. This is something I want to do," Carolina chuckled. "You'd be surprised—I'm writing a letter to Elio Edoardo."
Livia's eyes widened. She immediately understood.
"Ahhh, Dolcel! Are you ordering something from Dolcel? Why didn't you tell me?" she said, suddenly excited.
"No, Grandma—not ordering," Carolina shook her head. "I want to interview Elio directly for my thesis. It sounds strange, I know, but there's no harm in trying, right? I thought sending a letter about my thoughts on his art would be a good start. But I can't find the right words," she clenched her fingers, frustrated.
"Ah… I see now," Livia leaned closer, reading Carolina's screen. "You're afraid the letter might sound rude, or wrong?"
"Yes… I don't know. I'm confused," Carolina admitted, still typing and deleting.
"Try writing what's truly on your mind—why you're drawn to Dolcel, dear," Livia suggested. "Or tell him about how you wore Dolcel when you were born. That might catch his attention."
"Grandma—seriously?" Carolina turned quickly.
"I'm only helping," Livia smiled. "Trust your grandmother. Write what's deepest in your heart and thoughts. Gather everything—why Dolcel feels like it's calling you to uncover something. Say everything you feel. Don't be afraid."
Carolina stared at the screen, silent. Her grandmother was right. The dream from last night returned to her mind. Should she write about that too?
Write from your deepest heart and mind.
Her lips slowly curved upward.
"Alright… I'll try," she said, beginning to type again.
---
To the Honorable Elio Edoardo Moretti,
Respectful greetings. My name is Carolina De Luca, a fashion student. I would like to directly express my deep admiration for your works, especially Dolcel.
This may sound improper or even amusing, but I wish to speak honestly: my interest in Dolcel does not stem merely from its status as a luxury brand or its legendary name. My fascination began with confusion—when I saw one of your works displayed in a museum. It was undeniably beautiful. Yet, when observed closely and deeply, your creations seem to embrace a distinctive character that not everyone notices.
I realized that many Dolcel garments exhibited in the museum appear to possess an unusual identity around the hip area. At first, I thought it was simply a stitching technique or a mistake. But when viewed alongside your other works, it felt intentional. This thought followed me home and lingered in my mind. That very night, I dreamed that Dolcel was calling out to my soul, urging me to uncover the story and meaning behind your creations—as if there were a mystery waiting to be resolved.
I would also like to share a story that may seem insignificant, but my grandmother insisted I include it. When I was born in 1983, my family, the De Lucas, purchased almost all exclusive maternity wear from Dolcel. I even wore Dolcel clothing until I was two years old. This may be a trivial story, but my grandmother suggested it be told.
That is all I can sincerely convey from the depths of my heart and thoughts regarding Dolcel. I deeply hope for the opportunity to meet you, or at least interview you, to find answers—or perhaps to clarify what may simply be my own misunderstanding, which only you can truly explain.
Respectfully,
Carolina De Luca
---
That afternoon, a fever spread through Carolina's entire body. She hadn't attended class for several days.
"Oh God, please heal my granddaughter," Grandpa Cesare murmured, repeatedly kissing Carolina's forehead.
"Ah, Grandpa, I'll recover," Carolina groaned softly. "You're making me warmer. I'm already grown."
Cesare glared. "Children nowadays aren't like they used to be. In my time, grandfathers never kissed like this. You're lucky to be loved and don't even appreciate it," he said, standing up and walking away.
Livia could only shake her head.
"Cesare, you're making her feel worse. She's already sick—being around you makes it worse," she scolded.
Soon after, a servant appeared at the doorway.
"Excuse me, but Miss Carolina has received a delivery," he said.
Carolina immediately turned her head and sat upright.
"A delivery?" Livia asked.
"It appears to be a letter, Madam."
Without realizing it, Carolina smiled. Her legs moved on their own as she jumped off the bed, running past her grandparents.
"My goodness!" Cesare exclaimed.
Moments ago, she had looked half-dead—now she seemed revived by a miracle.
"Oh my God… this is from Elio Edoardo, GRANDMA!" Carolina exclaimed, clutching the letter.
"Oh heavens—is it really?" Livia asked, hurrying closer.
"Who is Elio?" Cesare asked, confused, while Livia and Carolina looked as if they had just witnessed a miracle.
"Grandma, it's real—I got a reply!" Carolina hugged the letter tightly.
"Calm down, dear. Read it—right here, in front of me," Livia said, smiling warmly.
"Alright…" Carolina took a deep breath and began reading.
---
To Carolina De Luca,
Thank you for your praise of my works. I am truly honored by your words. My eyesight is no longer as sharp as it once was, so this letter has been written by my personal attendant.
Carolina, regarding your observations of my creations—I am genuinely flattered. Never before has someone examined my art with such attention to detail. Thank you for that.
And if you would not mind, I would be very pleased if Carolina would visit my residence directly, so that I may explain in detail the meaning behind all of my works.
Sincerely,
Elio Edoardo Moretti