Milan - Piazzale Baracca

Over the years, I’ve been called many names, but you can call me by the one that suits me best: the house of a hundred secrets.
It’s not that I want to hide them, but they reveal themselves only to those who take the time to discover them.

I keep them in the surfaces that bear traces of a time that is no longer here, in the grain of the wood that creaks softly beneath your footsteps, in the slightly imperfect reflections of the mirrors, in the moldings that trace the ceilings like the thoughts of those who lived here before me, left there, suspended.

Outside, the city rushes by. Streets intersect, trams cut through the air and along the tracks, and the voices and sounds of the metropolis blend together, spreading out.

In me, however, everything softens; everything becomes calm, collected, and quiet. Even the noise changes its tone: it becomes gentle, like someone knocking softly before crossing a threshold.

The light spreads through the air, across the walls, and settles on the furnishings and surfaces. It doesn’t intrude; it simply accompanies. As the hours pass, it changes its tone, angle, and destination, and each time it chooses a different detail to illuminate.

So I, too, open up—but without rushing. My rooms reveal themselves, one after another, like the pages of a precious book, turned with care.

There’s always something about me that remains just out of sight: a corner, an angle, a detail that invites me to look further, to keep searching.

And so you walk right through me, without really realizing when you started to feel that I was yours.

Stay a little longer. I have more secrets for you to discover: don’t forget my name.