The fog lay like a smooth blanket, like morning milk spilled across glass. Everything was white and eerily silent. No sounds, no scents, no pain.
Only—peace. And emptiness.
Kakyoin stood motionless, as if he'd just come to his senses. No blood, no bruises.
Only a faint weight in his chest—like something important had been left unsaid. His hand held nothing, only emptiness where Hierophant Green used to be.
Even he was gone.
He looked around. A platform. An old clock above the archway, its hands frozen at 11:05.
No trains, no voices.
Only whiteness and a silence so thick, it felt like he was breathing it in.
And then he felt it—he wasn't alone here. Out of the fog—without footsteps, without a sound—as if he had stepped through a crack between worlds, He appeared.
Human in height.A slender, almost translucent figure cloaked in a mantle that swirled like black smoke. Its face was hidden behind a mask—not a frightening one, but rather... an empty one.
Inside the cloak, flickers of light and shadow stirred. Above the surface of the body, as if not touching it, floated crimson symbols—fragments of phrases, feelings, memories.They couldn't be read, but they were felt.
Kakyoin took a step back instinctively—but the figure didn't move closer.
It simply said:
— "You did well"
The voice—impossible to determine its gender. It was soft, like a dream, yet carried an ancient sternness. Like a dusty gramophone playing on the edge between reality and sleep.
Kakyoin frowned, unable to understand why a trace of anxiety still lingered within him.
"Where am I?" he asked. "Is this… the end?"
The figure nodded. Slowly.
— "This is—between. The last platform. The final question. The last chance."
"Am I… dead?" Kakyoin suddenly felt something bitter rising in his throat. He knew the answer, but asked as if hoping for a "no."
— "Yes. But you didn't leave until you passed on what mattered most."
For a moment, the station trembled.
Somewhere far away, on the other side of the platform, he saw the clock face—and how the hands had stopped.
How Joseph snapped his head around, staring at them.
How Jotaro clenched his jaw.
"Did they… get it?" he asked softly.
The figure didn't answer with words. It showed him.
Silence.
Jotaro's fist smashed against the wall.
Polnareff's hand resting on his bloodied leg.
Joseph's eyes—not filled with fear, but with proud, restrained pain.
And—fragments of his own footsteps. From despair—to choice.
Kakyoin closed his eyes. "I didn't get to say… anything. No goodbye. No thank you. No…" His voice faltered.
The figure stepped closer. It didn't radiate warmth, but there was no coldness either. Only a feeling of… completeness.
— "You can say it here. Everything you didn't get to say. Everything you didn't allow yourself to feel."
— "Will I get a chance?"
— "You deserved at least one."
Kakyoin sat down on the wrought-iron bench. The metal wasn't cold, but still seemed to remind him of something earthly, material—the last thing left with him. He didn't know why he sat. He just… felt it was the right thing to do.
The figure—Death—didn't move. Its cloak flowed downward, not touching the ground. Inside—stars, memories, ashes.
"I didn't think it would be… so quiet," Noriaki muttered, looking down at his feet. "I always imagined it… louder. Or scarier."
"You're not afraid." The voice was the same—soft, emotionless, yet not empty."Because everything you feared has already happened."
He nodded.
Yes, fear had been there before. When pain struck his body. When he fell. When he realized he wouldn't warn them in time. When his consciousness faded.
Now, there was no fear.
"I was alone when it all began," he said aloud. "Before I met them. Not even because of the Stand… though, probably because of it too. Who would believe that someone can create green threads out of thin air?"
Pause.
He smirked, almost bitterly:
"I wasn't normal. I didn't fit in. Not at school, not at home. Only books. Silence. And… loneliness. It's funny that only when I went out to fight to the death with some cursed vampire— that's when I suddenly felt alive."
"You didn't live. You merely existed," Death quietly confirmed.
"Yes. But with them… it was different. Joseph… he was old, loud, sometimes annoying, but… he was like the grandfather I never had. Jotaro—that damn stone face, there was… peace in him. A wall to hide behind. Polnareff—a fool. But… how grateful I am to that fool. And Avdol… —his voice faltered for a moment—he believed in all of us. Even when we didn't believe in ourselves."
"You weren't afraid to die. You were afraid of dying without meaning."
"Yes," he exhaled. "If only someone would understand why I shot the clock. If only someone…"
Death tilted his head. And in his gesture—silent message: They understood.
Kakyoin stared into the fog for a long time. Then he spoke slowly: "I don't want to… leave. But I'm not angry. You know? I thought I'd be screaming. That it was unfair. That I was only seventeen. But then I saw Jotaro stop time. I saw him strike Dio. And if I helped… even just a little…"— He closed his eyes for a moment. —"Then… I didn't die in vain."
"You didn't die, you just reached the end of one journey" Death answered softly "There's a difference."
Kakyoin stood up slowly. From the void, a train rolled onto the platform.
No horns. No lights. No name.
Just the road ahead.
He turned his head to the figure: "May I… ask one question? The last one?"
A nod
— "You're always here, aren't you? You see them all? Those who come… and those who go?"
— "All of them."
— "So… someday, you'll meet them too? My friends?"
Death didn't speak, but everything in his silence—from the movement of his cloak to a slight nod—said: yes. I will meet them. But not soon.
Kakyoin lowered his gaze. His slender fingers curled into a fist—not from anger, but from something else, hard to name.
He exhaled and said: "Then… if they ever ask…could you… tell them that I… That I'm glad we met?"
Pause.
"Tell them that everything that came before—the loneliness, the strangeness, the alienation—it was all worth the days we spent together. That I… truly loved them. Even if I rarely showed it. Even if we never had time for 'later.'"
Death looked at him, and in that silence there was no judgment. Only acceptance.
Kakyoin stepped toward the train, then suddenly stopped again—and gave a faint smile: "And… tell Polnareff that I finally admit—his hairstyle is cooler than mine. But don't let anyone else know, okay?"
Death slightly tilted his head in agreement: "I will pass it on."
"Thank you." Kakyoin looked straight ahead, his gaze calm, like someone who has finished telling a story, "Now… it's really over."
He stepped toward the train, but halfway there, he paused and turned back: "Do you… have a name? Or just a form?"
For the first time, Death seemed to hesitate—if only for a moment. Then he spoke, quietly, calmly, as if simply stating a fact: "Nocturne Void. The one who sees you off. The one who speaks only when it's time to"
Kakyoin nodded
—"Thank you. For letting me… finish"
Then he stepped onto the train.
He didn't vanish. He just… left.
Into the whiteness that had no beginning, and no end.
And on the empty platform, Death remained alone.
As always.
As it must be.
------------------------------------------------------
Later, somewhere in Europe. A quiet evening, touched by silence.
Polnareff sat on the veranda — older now, with eyes that had lost so much, yet forgotten nothing. He rarely speaks of the past aloud. But the memories… They live, just as vividly as on that day.
Of Egypt.
Of his friends.
And then he feels it: something is off. The air grows quieter. Not more tense—just… quieter, as if the whole world had taken a breath and forgotten to let it go.
He turns—and at the edge of the light stands a figure, as if woven from mist, wearing a long, gently billowing cloak. The mask hides the face, but there's no need to see it.
Polnareff doesn't recognize the silhouette—but he accepts it.
— Who are you? — quietly, without fear. Age makes men brave.
Death does not come closer. His voice sounds without a mouth — low, deep, like the rustle of wind in an old cathedral:
— I am memory. And witness. I carry with me the words of those who have left.
Polnareff doesn't move. But his face changes. He doesn't need an explanation.
— Kakyoin?
A nod. Then — words. Strange, yet familiar. Exactly as they were said:
— "If they ever ask… tell them I'm glad we met. That all the loneliness was worth those days. That I loved them. And tell Polnareff that I admitted his hairstyle is cooler. But don't let him tell anyone!"
Polnareff smiles, and only then realizes his eyes are wet.
— Damn it… — hoarsely, — you finally admitted it, huh? A bit late, brother, but… thanks.
He stares into the emptiness where the guest stood.
He is gone now.
But now the silence isn't empty.
In it sounds friendship lived to the end.
And memory that is not forgotten.