The vendor produces two cones at professional speed — strawberry pink, pistachio pale — and crouches to offer them, then pauses, eyes landing on the boutonnière still balanced on Flavio's outstretched palms. "Is this… yours?" he asks, with genuine uncertainty. Flavio considers the question for one long, philosophical second, then sets the flower on the counter with great ceremony, accepts the strawberry cone, and licks it once with enormous dignity. Aurora takes the pistachio, bites straight into the scoop, and nods as though confirming a private theory. The vendor is still holding the boutonnière, expression somewhat adrift, when the golden dog gives a single decisive bark — not at the pigeon this time — and somehow tugs its leash loose from the lamppost entirely. Both twins pivot in unison. The dog is already trotting up the cobblestone path, brass bell jingling, ears pricked, aimed with great purpose at something higher up the hill.