Nicolas left Lyon. He moved to Barcelona. For six years, he was erased from the Sunday lunch seating chart. Not disowned—we are too subtle for that. Simply unmentioned . The chronicle skipped a chapter. And then, last Christmas, he returned. Clara was with him, but different. Quieter. She wore grey. She did not laugh. She ate her huîtres in perfect, mournful silence. The family, satisfied with her conversion, slid a plate to the empty chair. Nicolas caught my eye across the table. In that glance was the whole novel of his exile: the fights in Gaudí’s shadow, the slow erosion of her brightness, the price of readmission. His romance had been a rebellion, and it had failed. The family chronicle had won.