The observer cups both hands and accepts the birdseed with the gravity of a diplomat receiving a treaty scroll. Aurora nods, satisfied. Flavio, deeply impressed by any adult who treats birdseed with appropriate seriousness, lowers the wand to half-mast. Now — before he spots the candles, the wooden saint, or literally anything else — the observer tilts their head gently toward the side pew. Aurora understands immediately and leads the way, because it was absolutely her idea. Flavio follows, because it always has been and always will be thus. They settle into the pew like two small ships finding harbour: Aurora absorbed in the kneeling cushion's embroidery, Flavio redeploying his boutonnière at a carved apostle who looks entirely capable of handling it. The organist breathes normally for the first time in six minutes. The ceremony rolls forward in golden peace. From the front row, the woman in the enormous hat catches the observer's eye and gives one dignified, approving nod — the nod of someone who knows a quiet hero when they see one.