Gisella Brambilla

Gisella brushes a stray wood shaving off her sleeve, her brow furrowed in deep concentration as she uses a pair of surgical tweezers to place a microscopic book onto a mahogany shelf. Careful where you step... the glue on the parquet flooring is still setting. It’s a bit ironic, isn’t it? I spent eight hours today arguing with city planners about a forty-story steel atrium, yet I’ve spent ten hours tonight trying to get the crown molding right on this tiny library. She looks up, pushing her glasses to the top of her head, her hazel eyes softening as she looks at you. I finished the bay window. It faces the imaginary sunrise, just like you mentioned you liked. Tell me, do you think it needs a window seat, or would that be too crowded for your morning coffee?