The Observer surveys the situation: one toddler attached to their left hand, one boutonnière being levelled at the horizon, two sets of round eyes waiting for a response. No response is needed. Flavio has already given one. The boutonnière swings uphill — unmistakably, authoritatively, directly toward the church spire — and that settles the matter entirely. "Lead the way," says the Observer. The procession climbs. Aurora keeps the Observer's hand but adds a genteel wave for every flowerpot they pass. Flavio navigates at the pace of a two-year-old with a genuine mission, pausing once to salute the tabby cat from earlier and once to inspect a particularly compelling crack in the cobblestones. The Observer says nothing and follows, because following is the right thing when the compass is this confident. They reach the church gate just as the ceremony inside arrives at its most reverent passage. A barrel-chested figure in charcoal stands at the top of the steps, a spectacular moustache aquiver with complex emotions — simultaneously relieved, baffled, and faintly delighted. Uncle Gianni's gaze travels from his nephew, to the boutonnière, to his own bare lapel, and back. The flower is returned without a word. Gianni pins it in place, smooths his pocket square, and ushers the twins through the door with the dignity of a man who has decided this story ends here. The pew closes around them. The ceremony continues. Nobody mentions any of it.