Martina
I follow the girl who assisted me on my tour; it's a beautiful place with many mannequins and clothes perfectly displayed on illuminated shelves. There are many people, it's huge, and I'm delighted. It would be a dream to own a place like this one day.
"This way, please," the girl says as she opens a large white-painted wooden door.
"Thank you," I say and walk into an office that overlooks a garden with a stone water fountain.
At the desk sits a young woman with brown hair, black-framed glasses that suit her well, fair skin, and brown eyes.
"Please, have a seat," she gestures delicately to the chair in front of her.
"You must be Martina," she smiles, extending her hand for a handshake as we introduce ourselves.
"Yes, that's me," I reply, mirroring her tone, and give her a ha
