Uncle Gianni catches the Hat Lady's eye with a subtle tilt of his chin — just enough. She turns. She finds Aurora staring at her with the unblinking intensity of a two-year-old who has already mentally tried on every single rose. A beat passes. Then the Hat Lady does the last thing anyone expects: she smiles — not the polite please-don't-touch-my-hat smile, but the real kind, worn by women who have attended enough weddings to find children entirely delightful. She leans across the gap between the pews and tilts her brim toward Aurora, presenting one fat silk rose like a formal introduction. Aurora blinks. She reaches out one cautious finger and touches it — soft, magnificent, hers-for-one-second. Then, satisfied, she tucks her boutonnière firmly back into her fist and sits. The Hat Lady straightens, hat undamaged, dignity intact. Uncle Gianni exhales. On his left, Flavio has found the moustache's left curl and is attempting improvement.