The observer leans forward just enough to catch Aurora's eye across the nave — one deliberate, unhurried nod toward the open door, then a pointed glance at the fist still curled around its contraband birdseed. Aurora blinks. She looks at the gull. She looks at her fist. She looks at the door. The mathematics of it — seed, bird, exit — assembles itself in her expression like a very small sunrise. She turns and begins to walk, scattering seed in a careful, considered trail down the aisle toward the light. The gull's head rotates a precise ninety degrees. Its yellow beak tilts. One orange foot lifts, sets down, lifts again. The Hat Lady's gaze does not follow it. She is still watching the door, already several moves ahead.