Black.

Dark blue.

Light blue.

White.

Black.

People, dozens at a time, standing shoulder to shoulder. All ordered, still and silent. No sliver of mischief or expressiveness, even in the few children present. Drained, trembling and faded, every last one of them.

Eight in a row, separated in the middle into two even halves of four. Two rows of four, then repeated a dozen more. Walk down the split center, and your vision crowds with people on either side. Look down the carpeted line through the center, and you see grandeur. You see a mountain of flowers, of white and yellow and light pink—of chrysanthemums and orchids and lilies and a lotus in the center.

They said the lotus was his favorite.

Eight men begin to pace down the center. Four on each side, on their shoulders they bear the shared weight of a single laminated wooden box, simple and undecorated yet decadent with a deep, undisturbed natural colour. There was metal in the four hinges that sealed the lid shut, and any sound from them—a click or clack from the slightest strain—would undoubtably wear down any intruder’s determination, making them question the morality of opening this box.

There was that somber finality to the box, wide as a man and unbearably heavy to the men shouldering it. Yet, at that moment, there was nothing more the men wanted then to safely see this box to its destination, whereupon there would be final peace. It was the greatest weight of their lives, and some, deep down, wished nothing more than to stop, fall down limp and lie there for the rest of days with trembling tears staining every inch of their being. But overcoming any grief was their respect for this sacred duty, ensuring nothing would disturb his final passage.

And all this, a man watched. Black from head to toe, he watched from beyond a doorway with a cane on his right hand, barely in view of the attendees and completely absent from their minds. The cordial nods and greetings he got at the beginning, and the friendly acceptance, was now replaced with a silent rejection. No one moved to make space, no one looked him in the eye.

But, he still lingered. He lingered for as long as he could until his pocket watch struck the last possible minute.

He walked out, the only sound coming from his cane and the off steps of his right leg. And with that limp he walked, taking in the last breaths he would have of this humid, hot air, the last view he would have of this unique blend of architecture, where wooden houses with tiled roofs were broken up with the odd brick house, no doubt the work of a fellow trader who had money to burn.

Admiring the newcomers and vibrancy, the man slowly found a chill spreading across his skin and nose. The air was almost flavourful as it passed his nose and out his mouth, the scent of salt making his mouth water. All this came before his actual sighting of the harbor, where a gust of air threatened to blow away his hat. With one hand gripping his hat’s rim, he descended towards the shore, where a row of factories lining the entire berth replaced the usual harbor scenery. Though they were not actually factories, either—one was a storage, holding boxes upon boxes of foreign goods, some were offices, housing exactly three kinds of people—every type of merchant, translators, and potential buyers.

The dock was scarce today, however. He wasn’t bumping into some rude Swede, crashing into some Cantonese kid carrying around boxes, or losing his cane among the influx of sailors racing towards the nearest anything with alcohol. Instead, he was able to calmly walk up and greet a man who looked moments away from being swallowed into a sheet of paper.

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He tapped his cane twice, and the man finally looked to the right, revealing himself as a boy no older than sixteen.

“Ah, Mr.Bonvicini.” greeted the boy, flashing his charcoal-caked fingers as he moves to greet the man. “You’re back just in time. We’re almost ready to leave.

The man—Bonvicini—nods. “Greetings to you too, William. Apologies if I made everyone wait.”

“Oh, it’s no problem, sir. Everyone may be in a hurry to leave, but it’s not like they would run off and leave people behind.” He says, reaching his charcoal-caked fingers into his pockets, smearing faint pencil dust everywhere as he pulls out his silver pocketwatch. “Besides, we have an hour and some left before departure.”

“Will it be enough time to finish your sketch?” asks the man, handing a handkerchief to the boy.

“I’m almost done, sir. Just got to touch up the flags.” He says, barely cleaning his fingers before returning to the sketch.

The man peeked around to look. Indeed, the Netherlands and British flag were missing some details, but otherwise the sketch was complete, depicting a simple scene of numerous fishing boats and larger boats intermingling against a backdrop of the industrial shore, flags standing tall across that boundary.

“It’s a wonderful sketch.” Comments the man. “Come in once you’re done, won’t you? The air’s a bit chilly around here.”

“No problem, sir.” Responds the boy, the sound barely directed anywhere as he quickly loses focus for anything that isn’t his paper.

Leaving the enamoured boy behind, the man approaches the harbour edge where a man stands watch by the plank leading into the ship.

“Welcome back, Mr. Bonvicini.” Welcomes a broad-shouldered sailor, his long black hair flapping in the wind like the ship’s sails. “I hear someone’s waiting for you by your cabin.”

“Are they? Thank you for telling me. I’ll be sure to go say hi.”

The ship’s wooden bottom shakes and lists under his foot, bringing Mr. Bonvicini from the safety of land to the uncertainty of the sea. But despite the shaking, and his limping leg, he paces across the deck with ease and finds his way towards his cabin.

He makes sure his cane is loud against the wooden floorboards, notifying his guest of his presence. To be extra formal, he also knocks against his own cabin door and waits for a reply.

“Come in.” replies a voice. A voice that was familiar to him some… twenty years ago.

He steps into the small cabin, refitted to house two by his request, and locks eyes with a man. A long black beard contrasted by short black hair, holding a pair of scissors in his hand.

“Come in, Giorno.” He says. “And close the door, please.” He adds with a shiver.

“I’m afraid this door will do little against the cold.” Replies Girono Bonvicini, closeing and locking the door behind him. “Especially once we’re out in sea.”

“Sounds dreadful.” Replies the man. It’s then that Giorno notices a basin in the man’s hands, filled to the brim with long, black hair.

Noticing his gaze, the man ruffles his short hair. “Am I not surprisingly decent as a barber?”

“Best in the East, no doubt.” He replies in jest, plopping onto his bunk.

“Oh, you’re too kind.” He replies, opening the window and dumping all the hair into the sea.

“So? How was my funeral?”

“It was quite a shock.” Replies Giorno. “It’s hard to believe he’s gone. Even now, I feel as if I can hear his voice beside me.”

“Though, he appears to sound much younger in my head. About how old…?” asks Giorno.

“Right now, I should be around 45.” He replies.

“Is that so.” Giorno huffs. “How inexplicable.”

“Not a bad age for a final voyage, no?” He says, pulling his scissors apart into two halves and scraping off his long beard.

“Yes, indeed. Though, I’m afraid it is quite the dull affair, sailing.” Says Giorno, resting his cane against the wall and leaning back. “You’ll bore of the waves before long. Not to mention the food—I still feel sick when looking at a fish.”

He scoffs, while still being careful with the scissors. “At my age, dull and peaceful moment is all I could wish for.”

“Not quite the words of a man half past his forties, no?”

As his jaw moves to reply, the ship lists the tiniest bit, making the man’s fingers slip. Suddenly, a scratch forms against the underside of his jaw, leaking drops of blood.

““Oh.”” Both men exclaim.

However, no exclamations came for the ensuing sight.

The odd an inexplicable sight of the man’s wound closing in clear view, skin and hair spreading across the bloody scratch like paint on a canvas. In a matter of seconds, the wound disappeared as if painted over.

“Careful next time, please.” Says Giorno. “We can’t have blood on our only bedding.”

“You are right.” He replies, being slow and careful with his bloodied scissor.

“By the way, once you’re done with that, we should decide your name.” Says Giorno. “The man you were is, by your own words, dead, after all.”

Finishing a clean shave, the man looks at a mirror and inspects his face.

“So, what’ll it be?”

“Well… let’s keep it uncomplicated.” He says. “No need to decide on something meaningful. Let’s just use the name of the previous me.”

“Ah.” Notes Giorno. “Are you Nan Huairen, then?” He marks with a decently accurate accent.

“Well, considering we are heading to the states, Ferdinand would be more appropriate.” He remarks. “Call me such. Ferdinand… Zhalan.”

“Well greetings Ferdinand.” He says, extending a hand in greeting. “I hope this will be a peaceful trip.”

“Likewise.”

The two shook, and before long they were off.

The countdown to his final moment beginning the moment the ship left shore.