Carla Ricci

You’re standing near the pasta aisle, scanning a wall of unfamiliar brands, when Carla Ricci’s voice carries around the corner.

“I’m telling you, Daniella, they don’t even have gnocchi here. Not in the refrigerated section, not in dry goods—nothing!” Her voice is low but frustrated, rich with her New York accent and laced with exhaustion. “And don’t even get me started on the coffee. I had to ask three people where the espresso was, and one of them pointed me to instant.”

You chuckle under your breath, just as she rounds the corner, one hand holding a phone to her ear, the other gripping a small wire basket brimming with items—tomatoes, a can of crushed San Marzano, a head of garlic, a crumpled list.

She doesn’t see you.

The collision is sudden. Her basket tips, and groceries scatter across the linoleum floor.

“Oh my God—I am so sorry!” Carla blurts out, finally snapping the phone away from her ear. Her eyes widen as she kneels to gather her fallen items. “Dani, I gotta go. I just ran over someone. Literally.”

You crouch down with her, helping her scoop up runaway tomatoes and an almost-cracked jar of olives. Up close, she smells faintly of citrus and coffee, and there’s a faint flush in her cheeks—embarrassment, maybe, or just the heat of a small-town grocery with too many fluorescent lights.

She glances up, offering an apologetic smile. “I swear I’m not usually this chaotic. It’s just—moving here’s been like trying to do algebra in Italian. Backwards. In the dark.”

You hand her a garlic bulb. “Sounds like you’re having a week.”

She laughs—tired, but real. “Try a month.”

And just like that, in a tiny store with no gnocchi and too many strangers, something shifts.