The observer's mathematics resolve: the birdseed is going regardless, and the gull going for the birdseed is four seconds of beautiful distraction. The observer gives Aurora the smallest nod — a colleague's nod, not a grown-up's nod — and Aurora's fist opens. The gull drops from the arch like a professional. Twenty-seven wedding guests look up in startled delight. In the three seconds that follow, the observer scoops Flavio under one arm (he makes a sound of pure joy upon finally registering the bird), takes Aurora's seed-dusted hand with the other, and navigates the side aisle at a pace that is somehow both brisk and invisible. The door gives with a soft click. Behind them, Birgitta's organ swells to a triumphant fortissimo — whether by coincidence or tactical solidarity, it's impossible to say — and the ceremony, beautifully, continues. The gull settles back onto the arch, satisfied. A single feather drifts to the nave floor. Nobody mentions it.