The figure in the terracotta blazer — seated directly behind the family pew — catches Flavio's eye at the precise moment the boy's finger begins its second approach to the moustache. With great deliberation, the observer raises both palms flat and presses them gently downward: the universal adult mime for *easy, settle, we are at a wedding, please.* Flavio freezes. He studies the gesture with his full scientific attention. Then, with tremendous solemnity, he mirrors it exactly — both small palms pressing the air, brow furrowed, a tiny statesman issuing a calming decree to no one in particular. The observer blinks. Uncle Gianni, who can sense these things through the cushion, allows himself the tiniest exhale. The finger has, for now, retreated. Aurora, peripherally aware, glances sideways at her brother's new hands-flat posture, evaluates it, and files it away. She will definitely want that later. For now, the pocket square braiding continues, one careful loop at a time, as the ceremony rises toward the vaulted ceiling.