The Observer — who has spent the last thirty seconds deciding between 'witness history' and 'quietly save it' — makes his choice. He crouches down to cobblestone level, blazer spreading around him like a terracotta tent, and holds out both hands, one for each twin, with the practised calm of someone who has dealt with small people before. Flavio eyes him. The boutonnière-wand lowers a centimetre. The seagull, sensing the dramatic shift in the room, chooses this exact moment to execute its grand departure — one enormous flap, the bread roll still clamped triumphantly in its beak — and disappears over the terrace railing toward the harbour below. Aurora watches it go. She tilts her head. Then she takes the Observer's hand. Flavio sighs the sigh of a general who has conceded the field with grace, and takes the other. They walk back up the cobblestones in a tidy row of three, the wedding proceeding inside just as warmly as it was before anyone escaped it. The seagull, halfway across the fjord by now, has absolutely no regrets.