The future returned to Elio once more.
He now sat in his flower garden, together with Carolina.
"The golden-haired girl who always waited for me at the harbor," he said suddenly. "With that strange gaze of hers… and an air that seemed to crave being looked at. I never found another girl like her again."
Elio smiled faintly.
"She was so unique, you know? Whether you had just met her that day or had known her for years—she always had something about her. A distinct quality, a mystery that made you want to keep unraveling her."
His eyes drifted into the distance. Sunlight brushed the tips of the leaves. His voice slowly filled with warmth and enthusiasm.
"My childhood… it changed the moment she entered it. Before her, my life was only about drawings, fabric, and sewing threads. But after Agata arrived, my imagination seemed to merge with hers—and turned into a wild, colorful escape into the world of fashion. She brought a rainbow into my life."
Carolina didn't interrupt. She simply listened in silence. And in that silence, her mind began to conjure images of Elio's past—a past that felt sweet and exciting to imagine.
"Speaking of that girl's background…" Elio continued. "Agata once told me everything while we were walking home from school together."
"She told you about herself?" Carolina asked, intrigued.
"Yes," Elio replied. "Agata was born into an Italian noble family."
"Oh—so she really was a noble?"
"A noble—and I'm not surprised she was that wealthy. Even living in a village, she still looked like a girl from the city. She said her family back in her old home were a circle of proud, old nobles. Her father was noble by blood, but her mother? Just an ordinary immigrant woman. And that was the beginning of all her troubles."
Elio leaned back against the garden bench and let out a soft sigh.
"Agata's extended family never truly accepted her mother. They said her father—that stubborn man—defied his own family just to marry her. And then… they left. Abandoned the noble world altogether. Her father once had a wine business, which he ran himself. Perhaps that was where all their wealth came from."
"And that also explains why Agata was so fashionable?" Carolina asked with a faint smile.
"Of course," Elio nodded. "You see, she grew up surrounded by high standards. But what impressed me most wasn't the luxury—it was her conviction. Agata always said she wasn't a noble. She wanted to be seen as equal to everyone else."
Carolina began to understand. Everything slowly came together in her mind—the colors of childhood, the noble family, the beautiful fabrics.
"So…" Carolina whispered. "What was Agata's role in your future fashion world—Dolcel?"
Elio laughed softly. His eyes narrowed, the sound of his laughter carrying both lightness and depth, like a melody of nostalgia.
"Ahh… straight to the point, are you?" he said. "Of course Agata had everything to do with it."
He plucked a single rose petal and gazed at it.
"Without her, there would be no Dolcel."
---
The past came back to Elio once again.
Several weeks had passed since they became friends. By now, Elio and Agata were almost inseparable. They played together nearly every day, and Agata had grown close to Elio's family—especially Grandfather Edoardo, who seemed to enjoy the cheerful girl's presence. Agata often joked with Elio's other siblings as well, though she spent most of her time in the flower shop, where Elio usually drew and lost himself in his thoughts.
That day, as usual, the bell above the door rang.
"Agata…" Edoardo called from behind the counter.
Elio immediately jumped down from his chair, rushing to greet the girl now standing in the doorway. And just as they had planned the day before, Agata had truly dressed up today. She wore a golden-yellow dress that flared outward, with a large bow at the small of her back and shiny white shoes. But what caught Elio's attention most was the large pearl necklace resting around Agata's neck. The light from the shop window reflected softly on the smooth surface of the pearls.
Elio narrowed his eyes slightly, then asked in a quiet voice, "May I touch it?"
Agata nodded gently. Elio stepped closer and touched it carefully.
"Agata… these pearls are too large for your neck. Whose are they?"
"My mother's," she replied.
Elio nodded slowly. "Then… it would suit you better to wear a pearl headband. Your dress already draws enough attention."
"Really? I wasn't sure what to wear. This was the only thing that caught my eye on my dressing table," she said, touching the necklace.
"Do you want to try making a headband ourselves?" Agata suddenly asked.
"Me? I wouldn't know how," Elio laughed softly, embarrassed.
"You never know. What's wrong with trying?"
They walked over to the study table Elio often used for drawing. Agata sat in Grandfather Edoardo's chair, facing Elio, who had already begun sketching again with his trusty pencil.
"I don't even know where to start…" Elio muttered, though his hand was already moving across the paper.
"Just start from now. Oh—and may I see what you're drawing?" Agata slowly pulled the sketchbook toward her, and Elio simply let her.
And that was how they were: Agata would come to the shop dressed up, and Elio would judge her outfit, give suggestions, even redraw his own version of it. They exchanged ideas freely. Agata would throw out wild concepts, and Elio would refine them into something more logical and achievable.
After that, they would usually walk out of the shop together. One of their next destinations was often Mr. Nardo's store—a figure Agata eventually came to know through Elio's stories.
Mr. Nardo was no stranger to Elio. Long before Agata came to the village of Borgo Alvento, Elio had often stared at Nardo's shop from the window of his grandfather's store. When he was seven years old, he had been endlessly curious about the shop across the street. One rainy day, little Elio stood sheltering in front of Nardo's shop, unable to stop gazing at its display window.
From inside, Mr. Nardo noticed the small pair of eyes watching intently. He opened the door and invited Elio inside. That was the beginning of their meeting. Although Mr. Nardo knew Edoardo, he had not been close to his grandson—until that day. Their relationship quickly grew. Innocent and curious, Elio never stopped asking questions about fabrics, colors, and design. Without realizing it, Nardo became his first teacher in the world of fashion.
That story made young Agata curious. She wanted to meet the man Elio always talked about. And finally, that afternoon, Elio kept his promise. He took Agata to Mr. Nardo's shop—the store was quiet that afternoon, and the day felt just right to introduce two important people in Elio's life.
The bell on the door chimed softly.
Elio stepped inside first, with Agata following close behind. The moment they entered and set foot inside the shop, the atmosphere immediately felt different—refined, aesthetic, as if they had just stepped into another world.
The room was dominated by warm deep red tones, paired with elegant dark green patterns adorning the walls and curtains along the sides of the shop. Golden ornaments filled the spaces between, blending beautifully with the soft yellow glow of the lamps reflecting off mannequins and clothing racks.
The light seemed to bathe the luxurious fabrics in radiance, making every garment on display appear alive and dazzling. Before them hung dresses with slender silhouettes, tailored jackets with sharp embroidered details, and accessories arranged with the precision of fine jewelry.
From the outside, the shop looked modest—almost unremarkable. But once inside, the world truly changed. This was not merely a clothing store; it was an art space. The interior evoked jewelry tones—a fusion of deep, rich gemstone colors that radiated luxury wrapped in warmth.
Agata stood still. Her eyes swept across the room. Her mouth parted slightly, then—
"Woaaahhh…" she murmured softly, almost inaudible, yet filled with awe.
She stood in the center of the room, slowly turning, as if unwilling to miss a single detail of the beauty surrounding her.
"Mr. Nardo…" Elio greeted quietly.
The man stood there, gazing at Elio with a warm smile before shifting his attention to the blonde girl beside him.
"And who might this be, Elio? I don't believe I've seen her before," he asked curiously.
Agata turned quickly, her lips breaking into a bright smile.
"Ahhh… I'm Agata—Agata Dolce. Elio's friend," she said, extending her hand to Mr. Nardo.
Nardo returned the gesture with a neat, courteous smile, as he always did.
"So now I learn that you have a new friend besides me, Elio… You never mentioned her before, did you?" he teased lightly.
Elio scratched his ear, unsure how to respond.
"Of course he hasn't had the chance," Agata cut in quickly. "I'm like his secret best friend. Elio says you're the most incredible designer in the entire village of Borgo Alvento."
"Is that so?" Nardo looked a little puzzled, yet a faint blush crept onto his face. The blonde girl's admiration seemed genuine, and he accepted it with an open heart.
With a welcoming gesture, Nardo invited Agata to walk around the shop. She followed eagerly. She knew well—Nardo's store was truly beautiful. Every corner was glamorous, rich with colors and patterns. The garments hanging there carried a distinctive aura of the 1920s—unique, expressive, and full of character.
They then moved deeper into the shop. The red door opened, and behind it, all curiosity was answered—Eleganti was not merely a place that sold clothes. Beyond the red door lay a vast room: the place where those garments were born.
There were long tables, spools of colorful thread, and people busy sewing, sketching, measuring fabric—each immersed in their own task. A small yet vibrant industry, moving like a passionate orchestra.
"Do you do all of this just for the village, Mr. Nardo? This is enormous," Agata said in awe, her eyes sweeping across the room.
"Not quite," Nardo replied. "I like exporting to big cities. But for some reason, I still prefer living here in the village rather than settling into the bustle of the city."
They walked further inside. Elio remained silent, his face calm as ever. He had been here many times—unlike Agata, whose eyes continued to wander with wonder. Elio had once felt the same way, but now he was used to it.
At the far end of the room, Nardo opened a wooden door. The moment it swung open, cascades of colorful light spilled across the floor.
Agata gasped.
The light came from a ceiling filled with stained-glass mosaics—vast and breathtaking. The glass formed crystal-like shapes inspired by nature, colored in deep maroon, mossy green, gleaming gold, rich purple—all within jewel-toned hues. The room was illuminated by warm golden lamps, making Agata feel as though she were stepping directly into a shard of glass itself.
"If you don't mind me asking, what kind of room is this, Mr. Nardo?" Agata asked, still staring upward.
"This… this is my sewing room," he replied. "But over there," he pointed to a corner near the mosaic window—not the one on the ceiling, but the tall window beside it, "that area belongs to Elio. He often studies there."
"You come here often, Elio? You never told me!" Agata exclaimed, jogging lightly toward the table. On the wall hung several design sketches, small sewing tools, fabric scraps, and Elio's favorite black pen. "So you've been learning how to sew all this time? I thought you only liked drawing," Agata said in awe.
"You just don't know me very well yet, Agata," Elio replied quietly, his tone carrying a hint of pride.
"Oh, really? Then perhaps I should start digging deeper—see what else I don't know about you," she said, winking mischievously.
Elio turned his head and realized that Mr. Nardo had left them alone in the sewing room.
"Why did he leave?" Elio asked, confused.
"Maybe Mr. Nardo is busy," Elio answered softly.
But Agata didn't care. She immediately grabbed Elio's hand and pulled him along, eager to continue their little adventure inside the magical world of Eleganti.
Agata kept circling the room with boundless energy. She walked lightly around the circular space, eyes sparkling, observing the sewing tables, fabric cabinets, and Mr. Nardo's private workspace—careful not to touch anything. Elio had warned her earlier. But… there was one place Agata knew she was allowed to break the rule: Elio's own corner, near the mosaic glass.
Meanwhile, Elio sat hunched over at his desk, absorbed in his sketchbook. His hand moved fluidly, trying to draw something new.
"Why is this place so unique?" Agata murmured, gazing up at the colorful ceiling. "Where did he even get mosaic glass this huge?"
"I know where it came from," Elio replied quietly, without lifting his eyes from the paper. "He once told me—after World War I, when he returned to the village after fighting for his country. As a form of gratitude, the old church gave him pieces of glass from their building. It's from the church windows."
Agata nodded softly. Then she turned toward Elio and stepped closer.
"Are you really that busy?" she asked.
"Yes… I'm busy," Elio answered flatly.
Agata pointed to one of the dress sketches hanging on the side wall. "Why don't you draw that dress instead? Would it suit me?"
Elio glanced at it, then scoffed quietly. If I draw that… wouldn't it stop being my own work? he thought. And he was right.
Agata didn't respond. She simply sighed softly and rested her head on Elio's desk, staring at him. She watched how Elio drew… then erased… then drew again… and erased once more.
Now Elio tried drawing a dress. In his imagination, Agata was wearing it. But a few seconds later, he shook his head slightly.
"Too crowded," he murmured, and erased it again.
Agata tapped her fingers on the table, growing bored. "Are you going to keep erasing it?" she asked, her restlessness creeping in.
"No. I just want perfection," Elio replied, still not looking up.
He drew again. But every time a detail felt off, he erased it once more. Agata sighed, looking at him with mild annoyance.
"So you're going to keep drawing… then erasing… then drawing again… then erasing again… until when?" she protested lightly.
Elio finally looked up and met her gaze. "So are you going to keep asking… or let me try?"
"I don't know. But that first drawing… it looked like me, wearing that yellow dress. Wasn't that me?" she said softly.
"Maybe it was… But I can't draw it too perfectly," Elio whispered, returning his eyes to the paper.
"Add color. It would be nicer," Agata suggested, stepping down from her chair.
"I'm trying."
Agata took a deep breath. She walked to the center of the circular room, right beneath the beam of light cast by the mosaic glass hanging from the ceiling. Red, purple, green, and gold spilled over her body. She stood there, letting herself be drenched in color.
"Elioooo!" she suddenly called out.
Elio lifted his head reluctantly—but his eyes widened at once.
Agata beneath the mosaic light—her hair glowing gold, her skin flushed warm, her eyes alive. One word crossed his mind:
Perfection.
"Stay… stay like that," he whispered quickly.
Agata let out a small laugh. "Draw me, then, if you can, Elio."
With Agata's signature confidence, she held her pose—freezing her movement with a teasing smile. Elio immediately pulled his chair closer, opened a fresh sheet, and began to draw.
For the first time, he wasn't drawing from imagination—but from what truly stood before him. Stroke after stroke, he followed the curves of Agata's body, her hair, her expression, even the colored shadows cast by the mosaic light upon her skin.
He began to add color: deep red, dark purple, mossy green, muted gold—each shade flowing from Agata's body straight into the tip of Elio's pencil.
Agata started to tire. Her body swayed slightly.
"Are you done?" she asked.
"Hold it… just a little longer."
"You've said that more than five times."
Elio didn't answer. His gaze kept moving—from Agata to the drawing, then back to Agata. He couldn't stop. For the first time, he felt it—he was creating something truly beautiful.
The soft sound of paper being torn free echoed faintly. Elio placed the finished drawing on the table before him. He stared at it for a long time. Silent. His eyes locked in place. A small smile formed on his lips.
For the first time in who knows how long—he felt proud of himself. Proud of something he had created with his own hands and heart.
Agata immediately rushed over. Her eyes widened as she saw the drawing.
"This… is me?!" she exclaimed, slamming her hand onto the table. Yet her gaze couldn't leave the sketch.
"But… why here… hmm… why do I look slimmer?" she asked, confused, scratching her head.
She fell silent for a moment.
"I'm slim…? If I were slimmer, would my body really look this beautiful…?" she murmured softly, as if speaking only to herself. She picked up the paper carefully, as though afraid it might tear.
And Elio?
Still where he was. Still quiet. But his smile hadn't faded. He brushed his slightly messy brown hair back, the soft strands swaying gently. His eyes never left Agata's expression.
"Aaaahhh… this is me! I'm so beautiful here!" Agata shouted happily. She began jumping around, the drawing clutched tightly in her hands.
Without thinking, she threw her arms around Elio in excitement.
Elio froze. His body stiffened. He didn't know how to react. This was the first time he had ever been hugged by someone his own age—warm, close, real.
The last hug he remembered… was only from Nino. That too, on their birthday—when Nino had hugged him because Grandpa Edoardo insisted. Just a formality. Not like this.
Elio could only stand there—ashamed, confused. But Agata, still overflowing with excitement, grabbed his hands and pulled them around her.
"Come on, hug me back. You can't be that bad at it," she demanded playfully.
And Elio… finally hugged her too. Slowly. Awkwardly. But sincerely.
There was something in that embrace he had never felt before.
Maybe pride.
Maybe warmth.
Maybe the feeling that… on that day, for a brief moment, he and Agata became home to each other.
All of it… because of a single mosaic-dress drawing.
Agata felt that for the first time, she had truly been captured as beautiful in an image.
And Elio, for the first time… felt that he had truly succeeded in creating something.
That was all.
But it was enough to make them remember that day… forever.
---
The present returned to Elio.
Nightlight slipped quietly through the window, wrapping the room in a gentle dimness. The glow from outside faded, blending with the warm lamp that lit the small dining space. Carolina and Elio sat facing each other, sharing dinner. Yet pen and pencil remained close at Elio's side—as if his fingers were unwilling to part from them.
"It was Agata who pushed me toward it," Elio said suddenly, his voice calm yet heavy with memory. "She was always the one urging me to do things I'd never imagined before. That mosaic gown… it was the first dress I ever truly designed. For her."
He scooped his food slowly.
"Did you really spend that much of your childhood together?" Carolina asked softly, curiosity laced with warmth.
"Of course," Elio replied without hesitation. "Moment after moment, day after day, until years passed. Since we met at that festival, we were like needle and thread—never meant to be apart. Wherever we went, there was always a way back to each other."
A faint smile crossed his face before he continued.
"Even when the festival came again, she stayed by my side selling flowers in front of my grandfather's shop. I remember her trying to pull a large flower pot—struggling so hard that she ended up tumbling into the wet soil. When I rushed to help, I slipped too. Her beautiful dress was stained with earth from my grandfather's flowers. After that, we took a boat to the shop. There, I drew her—with flowers blooming behind her. That's when the idea came to me: a dress made of flower petals, matching the color of her hair. Her hair was so beautiful—like shimmering gold, paired with petals. We kept selling that day, even though our clothes were already dirty and worn. That afternoon, after we finished, we played by the beach. That was when she told me again—she said she hadn't found her favorite flower while selling. At first, I thought it was red roses, the kind she bought the very first time."
"So… what was her favorite flower?" Carolina asked.
"Anemone," Elio answered. "She said that when she was born, the flowers blooming in front of her house were anemones."
He paused, looking at Carolina.
"I was her only best friend. And she was mine. We went through everything together—Christmas, New Year, seasonal festivals, birthdays… Agata never missedmy birthday. And I never missedhers."
Elio let out a small laugh, glancing toward the window.
"Ah, birthdays… this one was special. My birthday was always celebrated with my twin brother. When Agata found out, she was confused—she didn't know who she was supposed to give a gift to. But after that, she actually started to love my birthday. She said it felt like having an extra sibling. She even began celebrating her own birthday on the same day as mine. Her parents could only shake their heads—but who could ever argue with Agata when she'd made up her mind? So in a single year, she had two birthdays," Elio smiled. "She said it was so she could know what it felt like to have a twin too."
Carolina laughed softly, picturing the little girl celebrating among the Moretti family.
"And what about Nino?" she asked. "You're twins—didn't Agata ever confuse the two of you?"
"Oh, she did," Elio replied, eyes bright with amusement. "But only at first. After that, never again. Agata once said, 'At first I kept thinking it was you, but it turned out to be Nino. Now I can tell you apart—from your build, even from behind. Your aura is completely different.' I don't know how she saw that 'aura.' Once, she grabbed someone's hand thinking it was me—turned out to be Nino. He pulled away coldly, and Agata scolded him, thinking he was me. They ended up arguing. Well… people with equally strong adventurous spirits rarely back down. I just watched from afar."
Carolina nodded, her eyes glowing. She felt relieved—Elio's childhood wasn't only about fashion and creation, but also about warmth, noise, and vivid memories. At first, she'd imagined him as sensitive, closed-off, even cynical, just like the media portrayed. In truth, the legendary designer was simply a man who cherished memories, simplicity, and his private world.
Yes, Elio was shy.
He always had been.
Perhaps that was why he avoided the media—choosing instead to keep his life folded quietly within fabric and color.
"I see…" Carolina murmured.
And eventually, the cold night gently invited them to rest. Elio's childhood stories paused for now—but they were never truly finished. Because stories like those… always leave room to be told again.