The seagull tightens its grip on the bread roll with the air of a diplomat who has won. Aurora regards it with the expression of an archbishop who has decided to table that motion for later, then looks at the Observer. The Observer is already walking. Their terracotta blazer cuts a warm diagonal across the flower-dressed terrace — the deliberate stride of someone who absolutely did not mean to get involved in any of this and is now very much involved in all of it. They glance back once, one eyebrow slightly raised. One eyebrow, it turns out, is exactly enough. Aurora tugs Flavio's sleeve. Flavio considers: one seagull, one bread roll, one standoff that has gone badly sideways. Then he looks at the Observer, and his boutonnière-wand swings like a compass finding magnetic north. He follows. She follows. The Observer leads them toward the harbour side of the terrace, and the smell of ice cream is, it turns out, entirely real.