Ch. 13
Graveyard

DECEMBER 3RD, 1988
11:14
ROCHOR, SINGAPORE

Once upon a time, there was a prince named Sang Nila Utama, who hailed from the island country of Sumatra. One day, on a hunting trip with his men, he came upon a stag and chased it atop a small hill. There was no sign of the stag, but there was a large and climbable rock. Compelled to scale the rock, he made his way to the top and beheld across the sea an island whose sand was as white as a sheet of cloth. The prince sailed to the island with his men, surviving a nasty storm along their journey.

Upon landing safely on the beach, they began to hunt for wild animals near the mouth of a river on a patch of land that would later become known as the Padang. It was here that the prince beheld a strange and fast animal with a white breast. The beast had disappeared into the jungle. Fascinated by this, he asked his chief minister what he had seen. It was a lion, which he saw as an omen of oncoming good luck. Thus, he remained on the island and built a new city upon it, naming it after the lion he witnessed:

Singapura.

Well, that was what the brochure Joaquín was given had read. And the picture on the front, a beautiful city surrounded by water, perfectly matched his surroundings. If it weren't for the fact he would probably be living in Japan, Singapore was the type of place he'd want to live in. It reminded him of New York, only somehow cleaner. He wondered if it was due in part of stricter laws than back in America.

It was around sunrise when they were all rescued. A freighter managed to pick up their distress signals and brought them all aboard. The captain was friendly and none of the crew were Stand users, which they were all thankful for. They were all able to get themselves cleaned and into fresh clothes (Joaquín returned to his casual clothing and Della to her red tunic) before being dropped off along a port. From there, they opted to walk through the city than take a taxi. For exercising purposes.

Lunchtime was rolling around as they were making their way to the Shangri La Hotel, which was suggested to his grandfather's by a friend. They had plans to stay there for at least two days in order to plan out their next route. With less than two blocks away, the group had to stop, for Jean Pierre had decided to catch his breath.

"Monsieur Joestar," he panted as he dropped his bag of luggage, "Why couldn't you have chosen a closer hotel? There were so many over at that Marina Center."

"This one's a nice one," said Joseph. "And cheap for all of us. Trust me, those other hotels can be pretty pricey."

"But aren't you rich? What should it matter if we take a more expensive one?"

He had a point. But as much as he would want to relax in the most comfortable hotel there is here, they couldn't be wasting money like crazy. The money they all had needed to last them through their journey. This isn't a vacation, thought Joaquín. And before he said anything, a loud, angry whistle rang out behind them. They turned to see a police officer running and pointing at them. More specifically at Jean Pierre.

The officer stopped and pointed to his luggage. "You," he barked. "Can't you read the sign?!" He pointed again, this time to a nearby sign with a hand dropping a tissue. It had a line across it, and the message was clear. "No littering! Singapore is a trash-free country, and you will be fined 500 Singapore dollars!"

Jean Pierre looked down to make sure he was actually talking about the bag of clothes he had. His rather offended look almost made Mohamed laugh. He then got into the officer's face and said silkily. "Sorry, but all I see is my luggage. Don't tell me you think my luggage is garbage." Now the officer looked embarrassed as Jean Pierre put his arm around him and smiled dangerously. "Tell me again. Is this garbage?"

"T-This is your luggage," asked the officer with a nervous chuckle. "S-Sorry about that! I'll let you go!" And he ran off, leaving the group to chuckle over the events that transpired. Even Joutarou smirked. But Joaquín noticed that one of them had not joined in on the humor. He looked over and saw a rather downcast Anne, sitting along the retaining wall by the sidewalk and not looking at anyone. It was easy for him to understand what was upsetting her.

Moving away from his friends and family, he went over to Anne and knelt at eye level with her. "Oye, mirame," he said in Spanish.

"What," Anne asked in toneless confusion.

"I said look at me. Please?" She turned her blue eyes to his own. "Good. I know you're kinda let down about going home. But listen. I don't want you going back feeling like you'll never do this again. Because you will. Wanna know how you'll do it?" Anne nodded silently. "You work for it. Make a plan. Don't go half-cocked like you just did, and not with a bunch of strangers who you didn't even know what they were doing. You gotta do this on your own. Got it, Anne?"

She nodded, but it did nothing to lift her spirits. He didn't want her last day with them to be a sour one. So Joaquín then said, "I'll tell you what. Once all this is over, I'll come back to find you. Then you, me, and Della can go on a little trip. I'll take you to a few places. Even New York, where me and my abuelito live. Would you like that?"

"You'd do that?" And Anne's eyes immediately lit up.

"Of course. I'm not one to go back on my word." He looked behind him and saw Jean Pierre raised a shaved eyebrow as if he thought he was lying. "I mean it. Don't give me that look, you French-fried Romeo."

And that playful insult was enough to make Anne giggle and Jean Pierre pout in mock insult. Joaquín felt happier to know he succeeded in cheering her up. And he really did mean what he said. It would be nice to do some traveling once Dio's been dealt with. Maybe I can take Della with me, got to Italy like she's always wanted. Although, admittedly, he wanted to do that once he settled down in Japan after a while. Better to not bring that up with Anne just yet.

"Let's just get going, Monsieur Joestar," said Jean Pierre as he hoisted up his luggage over his shoulder. "There's a hotel room with my name on it." And with the moment now behind them, they finally made their way to the hotel.

~+JO*JO+~

It didn't take them long to reach the appropriately named Shangri La, nor did it take long to speak with the concierge. According to her, the impending holiday season has left them pretty booked.

"We still have rooms available," she reassured. "However, they won't be next to each other. Would that be an inconvenience?"

"A minor one, bu it's not as if we have a choice," said Joseph as he signed his name. "We can make do with it. Now, let's see… For our room arrangements… I think Avdol and I can share a room. Two beds, if you please."

"Joutarou and I can take a room together as well," spoke up Noriaki. "We are students, after all." Joutarou did not object.

"Can we have a room together," asked Della, motioning to her friend. "Single bed?" Joaquín couldn't help but smile. He certainly enjoyed sharing a bed with Della. And it wasn't just because he had a better night's sleep with her around, but because he had someone to sleep with. It brought him a different comfort that had nothing to do with not having any nightmares.

That left Jean Pierre and Anne, and the little girl made it perfectly clear she did not want to share a room with him. She might be a little girl, but she was still a lady. Luckily, the hotel could accommodate separate rooms for them. The Frenchman couldn't be happier. With the rooms all paid for and their names signed, they each took their keys and began making their way towards the stairs leading to the next floor. It wasn't until they were up the first flight that Joaquín noticed his grandfather giving him a funny look.

"What's up, Abuelito," he asked.

"Oh, it's nothing important," said Joseph wistfully. "I just can't help but notice how close you two are. How long have you been friends again?"

"About a month, I believe," said Joaquín. "Though, it almost feels like we've always been friends."

Joseph scratched his beard in thought. "A month... Yes, that would be a good enough amount of time..."

"Enough time for what?"

"Oh, nothing." he could tell he was smiling slyly behind his beard.

"No, tell me!" But he already knew what he was getting at. He thought that Joaquín and Della may already be boyfriend and girlfriend. They absolutely weren't, but he felt as if he had a point. The two were closer than normal friends ought to be, sleeping comfortably in the same bed and sharing stories they haven't yet done so with the others. Plus, they both cared about each other so much that they would put themselves in harm's way just to save one another. They might as well be dating.

But she doesn't like me like that. Does she?

He pushed this thought out of his head and said nothing else as the group headed off to their rooms. Joutarou and his group went onward to the 12th floor as Joaquín, Della and Jean Pierre looked for their floor. Upon arriving in their hall, the Frenchman bid the two a good day and entered his own room, leaving the two to enter the one at the end of the hallway. Theirs was rather comfortable with a cushy bed, a clean bathroom, and even a small refrigerator. They even had a beautiful, balcony view of the city.

"This is really nice," Della said as she set down her luggage knelt to check the fridge. "And the fridge is stocked for us. There's snacks, juice and… alcohol?"

"Do you drink," asked Joaquín as he sat down at the edge of the bed.

"I tried beer once. It's nasty. But there's no beer. It's all fancy stuff… Heineken, some wine, Schnapps-"

That made him perk up. "Schnapps! Oh, hell yeah! Get some glasses, we're having some!" His rather enthusiastic reaction made her smile. Della took a moment to set up the drinks, using some shot glasses she found in the cabinet. She then took a seat beside him and handed him his drink, which he raised. "I propose we make a toast. To friendship and to a fruitful adventure. May we succeed and kick Dio's ass back to hell."

"I can drink to that." And the two clinked their glasses before downing their shots. The alcohol burned on the way down, but it's sweet, peach flavor made up for its bitter burn. While Joaquín hadn't much of a reaction, Della was thrown into a coughing fit. She probably never had anything quite like it.

He patted her back and chuckled. "You okay," he spoke through his amusement.

Della slowly calmed down and spoke in a scratchy voice, "It burns… I wasn't expecting that…"

"Nobody expects it to burn the first time. I said the same thing to my dad when we went drinking for my birthday and he just laughed." And so did he, but it turned into a somber one as he stared at his glass. "You know, that was the day it happened"

"I remember," she said softly. "If I may ask… what really happened that day?"

While Joaquín never liked talking about such a sensitive topic, he felt comfortable enough to relay the story to Della. She is my best friend, after all, he admitted to himself. So, with another shot poured and another shot downed, he began to tell her his tale.

"Well, we decided to go to a bar to celebrate my 21st birthday. I had my first taste of alcohol there, and we were having such a good time, just me and him. A bit later, I decided to go use the bathroom, and when I came back, I saw everyone crowded around someone. When I went to look, I saw it was my dad, beaten up and dead."

"Oh my god," whispered Della. "You didn't even get to see it…"

"No. I didn't. My back was turned for one second and he had gotten into a fatal fight. According to everyone else, all he did was bump into the guy. It was one-sided. And when I got to my dad and just… held him… the man just stood there."

"He didn't run?"

"I guess he wanted to see me in anguish. I wouldn't know. But anyway, after a bit, he walked out and the police came several minutes after. Everyone gave them a witness report and a description of what he looked like. And the police held a two-month long investigation. They never found him. And I just gave up… I promised my father, on the day he was buried, not to let his death hold me back from living… But I also promised not to hold back should I ever meet that man again."

A silence followed his story, but it was quickly broken by Della pouring herself her second shot. She looked rather sad to know her friend had gone through such a traumatic experience. Anyone would feel that pity towards those who suffered. She drank again, this time only wincing from the burn before she spoke in that same whisper.

"My parents were brutally beaten up in front of me."

"What?" he asked, not expecting this at all."

"Yeah. When I was five. Back then, I was living in New Jersey. My mom and dad had allowed me to have my first sleepover with a boy my age. That one night, we heard our window break below. And we both went to my parent's room, where they told us to hide in the closet… Then… the thieves came in and…" She couldn't seem to continue, her eyes watering up from having to remember such a tragedy. Joaquín didn't let her, as he brought her into his arms to comfort her.

To talk about such a sensitive topic was very brave. And he was somewhat glad she had trusted him enough, the way he did with her, to relay her tale. But bravery could only go so far. Joaquín did not want to push her to explain further when she had just given away the ending before the story.

"I'm sorry, Della," he consoled as the hug ended. "Nobody should ever go through this. I should know. But you wanna know something?"

"What's that," asked Della as she wiped her tears.

"They're always with you. Even in death, our family isn't truly gone." And Della smiled, knowing he had a point. "Now come on. Let's have one more drink, okay?"

And as he reached for the bottle, Joaquín had looked up at the closet in the corner of the room and noticed something strange. It wasn't the fact that it was barely open, he knew about that when they walked in. But it was the fact that there was something inside. Something large and grey, barely illuminated by the light slipping inside. Whatever it was, he felt compelled to see it.

"Jojo?" Della looked confused as her friend stood up and approached the closet. She had done the same thing and stood behind him, no doubt curious as to what he saw. When he opened the closet door, they beheld a surfboard, grey and battered with numerous skulls decorating it. "Whoa… A surfboard… But who would leave one here? The staff? Maybe someone forgot it here?

"No, it can't be," Joaquín said slowly, looking at it closer. "This isn't exactly good weather for surfing. Plus, this isn't something you could easily forget. And even if it was, the staff would have taken it out when cleaning the rooms."

"So bizarre…" When Della placed her hand upon the board, a look of confusion washed over her. "Jojo, come feel this! I don't think it's a surfboard!" And when he felt it as well, he had to agree. Its material was not whatever surfboards were made of, but out of some cold, rough stone. It looked like a gravestone, which explains the skulls on it. And the more Joaquín looked at it, the more uncomfortable he felt. This "surfboard"... feels like death...

"Let's go report this to the staff," he said with a shiver as they took their hands off it. "It's starting creeping me out. I'm not sleeping here until this thing's out. Wouldn't you agree, Della?"

But when he turned to his friend, he saw her frozen in place. Her widened, tear-filled eyes stared ahead in terror. His eyes followed to where she looked, and it was then that he noticed that half of the hotel room was gone. It was overtaken by a dark and dimly lit bedroom, the light filtering from the blinds onto an occupied bed. Two men in black stood atop a man and woman, beating them to death and spilling their blood on the sheets.

He knew who they were. They were Della's parents. This was the memory of that awful night.

Before he could say anything, an anguished cry from behind him caught his attention. Something in him froze up. I know that cry, Joaquín thought, dread filling his heart. I know what's behind me. I can't look. I don't want to see him like that again. But like his friend, he was compelled to turn around and behold his own painful memory.

The second half of the hotel room was replaced with a bar, its chairs strewn about and a crowd of people whispering amongst themselves. Through a gap, he could see a young man crying over the cold, dead body of another. Dark eyes were gazing emptily up at the ceiling, his short, spiky hair matted to his blood-streaked face. Oh yes. It was easy to recognize his father and the mourning figure of Joaquín Trejo.

His heart was in his throat. Everything from that day was playing out seamlessly before his very eyes. And it was vivid, from the scent of alcohol in the air right down to the temperature the bar was set at. It's like I'm really here. But… is he here too? The bastard that killed Dad? He had to find out, to see the man's face properly. Joaquín stepped forward and tried to move someone aside, only for his hand to phase through him as if one of them were a ghost. He didn't care, as long as he got to see.

Joaquín's twenty-one-year-old self and the lifeless body of Carlos Trejo came into view before him. The bartender was there as well, frozen behind his station and as fearful as everyone else. And then, there was the man, standing over the broken family and smiling. He was as he remembered him. A handsome youth, eyes hidden behind shades, a casual attire of denim jacket and jeans that complimented his looks. And then there was his black, wavy hair that made him look like a victorious bird of prey.

He wanted to punch him. He so wanted to punch off that smug face of his. It's not gonna help, he thought ruefully. He's not really here. None of this is really here. Its just an image, and something's making it. What though? A Stand? It has to be, there's no other explanation. There's gotta be one close by, as well as its user. Bigger question is, where? And how do I escape?

Just as he was about to begin looking around for a means of escape, a nearby phone rang. There were a lot of things he remembered about this horrible day, but this wasn't one of them. He looked around and saw that the phone mounted to the wall behind the bar was the source of the noise. He moved passed his crying past, through the bar and tried to pick it up. It was solid, and before he could say hello, a seedy voice spoke out from the other end. "Time's up. Ready for another trip?"

"Wait, what do you mean by-!" But he couldn't get the rest of his message out, as he was pulled back behind the crowd in a blur of color and time. He felt pain in his heart and head, almost enough to make him wobble. Then, he heard the anguished cry of his past self again, the same one that drove him to turn and see this memory. Behind him, there was a grunt of pain, mixed with choked sobs. Della was still there, crying profusely and now on her knees. She was still frozen in place.

It was painfully (quite literally) clear what had happened. The memories had reset after... How long was it? Perhaps a minute? Two? And it hurt going back to the beginning. God knows how long it'll continue before we end up dead... I gotta work fast and figure how to get out... He moved past the crowd again and behind the bar, just as the phone began to ring. He wasted no time in picking it up, and this time, he spoke first.

"E'cúchame, tu hijo de puta, who are you? And where's your Stand?"

The voice on the other end laughed. "I'm surprised you didn't ask me how my Stand works."

"I already figured out the gist of it. We go through our memories and are hurt by them in a time loop. Now how do we get out?"

"Hm... You know, you're one of the few people I've seen with a fair amount of determination to escape and ignore the grief and pain your past is causing you. Everyone else I did it on, like your little girlfriend over there, just let it happened and cried their pretty eyes out to death. I like you, Trejo." He actually sounded impressed, but Joaquín had no time for that.

"Just tell me how to escape," barked Joaquín, fully aware that he wouldn't.

"Ah, see, I can't do that. That British guy Dio gave us a job, and we are seeing to it that we carry it out. A hefty price has been put on all your heads, and it'd be pretty shameful to go back to him without one of them."

We? A wave a dread washed over him. How many of Dio's subordinates are in the hotel? Have the others bumped into any while we're being attacked by this one? "Who else is with you?"

"Oh, just a friend. He should be taking care of Polnareff as we speak. Anyway, since I like you, I'll give you some information. And maybe a little hint. My name's Haines. My Stand is called Graveyard. Think about it while you rot away, kid." The man named Haines laughed on the other end before letting out a rushed, "Two minutes," and hanging up. Joaquín put the phone back and wracked his brains for a second.

Okay, so Graveyard is a Stand that takes the form of a very painful memory, which runs on a two-minute loop. At the end of each loop, its targets are rewound back to the beginning and are hurt. Probably from the grief and pain felt during the memory. That makes sense. But Haines said I had a strong will to escape. That's just what I'm gonna do. I'm not gonna let my past hold me back and bring me pain. I will escape my past!

It was quite a poetic thought. But as he saw, there was no escape. They were both trapped between two separate walls: the bar and the dark home. Death stood between them, and death awaited them. It was as if they were in a coffin, unable to escape from the dirt trap they were buried in and forced to rot from the pain of it all. Graveyard. Quite a fitting name, he bitterly thought, That user might as well start making our tombstones. Heh. I should probably think of an epitaph to put on-

And then it clicked. Tombstone... The first thing that came to mind wasn't what you'd find marking a grave. Rather, he thought of the accursed object they had touched, which he knew was the cause of their entrapment. Call me crazy, but that damn surfboard has to be, without a doubt, the Stand! Haines' Stand! His Stand is in our memories!

"Della," he cried out to his friend. She didn't look up from her spot, but he was certain she heard him. "The Stand is that surfboard we touched! We need to find it and-!" His sentence was cut off again, and it was back to square one. This time, he was actually brought to his knees. The pain felt like a knife in his chest now. He wouldn't have been surprised to find blood staining his shirt. But he couldn't let the pain hold him back. He knew what he had to do now: find Graveyard in his memory and destroy it.

Joaquín looked around every square inch of the memory. Under tables, inside the ghosts of the witnesses and even behind the bar. There wasn't a speck of grey stone anywhere. Surely a giant carved rock wouldn't be that easy to hide, would it? It would stick out like a sore thumb. A minute had passed and there were still no results. At this point, Preciosa was summoned, who he allowed to run and punch through everything he could. His fists phased through everything. There was nothing hiding in anything.

Half a minute remained before a new loop began. Joaquín didn't know how many more they could handle before their hearts simply stopped. They were already on their third. He counted down the remaining seconds in his head, dreading the pain. Fifteen seconds. Now he was growing desperate. His Stand had moved on to punching through everyone in his vicinity, even the killer. Nothing. Then he moved onto his father, someone he did not want to end up punched, memory or not. It would have been an insult to do that.

"No," cried Joaquín, reaching out to stop his Stand. But it was too late. His fists phased through, and to his immense shock, there was a loud cracking noise. His father, dead as could be, slowly turned to stone and crumbled before his eyes. The memory faded away, allowing one half of the hotel room to return. So that's where it was hiding. And then he realized. Gravestones are markers for the people buried beneath it. And our memories are about the dead. So that means Graveyard is hiding in our parents.

The second half of the room repeated before his eyes. He felt no pain, but Della sure did.

Her coughed-up blood was proof of it.

Something inside Joaquín's mind was panicking, but he tried not to let it overtake him. He needed to work fast. Both user and Stand entered the memory, but before he could punch the image of father and mother, he stopped. The voice of Haines filled the room without the need for a phone.

"It's not your memory, Joestar," he jeered. "You can't do jack! The only one who can free themselves from the pain Graveyard inflicts is the victim! And seeing that your little friend is not moving and you can't hurt Graveyard here, she's as good as dead! So say your last good-byes to little miss Brown!"

No, he thought defiantly. I will find a way. There's always a way!

"Don't move, Adi. I got this."

It was a little boy's voice, the one Della had told him was invited to the sleepover. It was a reminder that there was another person who had witnessed this memory. Despite the desperation of their situation, he was curious as to see who it was. Moving toward the closet, where he knew the two children were hiding, he saw a teary, terrified eye peeking out from the door. Upon opening it, he beheld the little girl once named Adeline cowering in fear. Then his eyes rested upon the boy beside her.

His heart stopped.

He knew him.

Put it away for now. Talk to Della about it afterwards. Without hesitation, he sent Preciosa to punch the hapless victims of the attack, breaking apart the Stand hiding within them. After they crumbled apart, the memory of that awful night faded away to return them to their hotel room. Della was still on her knees, sobbing quietly beside him as she was freed from the Stand's influence.

As Joaquín was about to comfort his friend, a disgruntled growl emanated from beneath their bed. Crawling out was a thin man wearing all leather, his tan, exposed arms covered in tattoos of skulls and his seedy, gaunt face covered in greasy and matted black hair. It was Haines, and he did not look happy.

"You son of a bitch," he growled, shaking in anger. "How did you do it?! How were you able to free her?!"

"You made a fatal mistake in using your Stand on us," said Joaquín in a growl of his own. "Those memories were not meant to be dredged up. And yet you did it. You made us suffer."

"Don't duck my question, jackass! Answer me! How did you save her?!" But Joaquín did not answer, instead slowly approaching like an animal ready to pounce. He had just about enough of Haines. This man, this Stand user, subjected them and perhaps countless others to painful, psychological torture. And he probably enjoyed doing it, too. He needed to pay. "Why won't you say anything?! Answer me, damnit!" His face was slowly blanching from the silence, his body backing away from his former prey.

He knew what was coming.

The wheels in Haines' mind were so visible to him now. He knew that the only means of escape was through the sliding-glass door leading to the balcony. But he was one step ahead. Before the man even had a moment to turn, Preciosa shot out his hand and lifted him up by the neck of his vest. As the man struggled vainly to break the Stand's iron grip on him, Joaquín approached the man, fists clenched in anger

"People like you are nothing but scum," he growled more fiercely than before. "And you know what happens to scum? They get WIPED OUT!" Preciosa let go of him temporarily and began punching him with all his might, his usual cry of "¡TOMATOMATOMA!" filled with the same rage Joaquín felt for the man who tormented them. With one last punch, the bleeding, crumpled Haines was sent flying and screaming through the window far off into the city.

It might have been his imagination, but he could have sworn he heard a second scream. But that didn't matter at all.

With Haines gone, Joaquín turned his attention to Della. He knelt before his best friend and opened up her hands that covered her face. He could see her green eyes now red and watery, tears flooding across her freckled cheeks. There was some blood on her chin from the attack. With his rage now replaced with care for his friend, Joaquín began wiping her face clean with his shirt. All the while, Della's eyes curiously darted all over his face. It was as if she was taking in every detail there was to his appearance.

Once the blood was off her, he rested his eyes on hers. They stopped. Then, Joaquín asked her, "What did he do afterwards? The boy who was there. What else did he do?"

Della gave him a confused look for a moment before realizing he was referring to the memory. "He… He stepped out of the closet. And he beat them up. Then he called the police… and he took me with his father so I could spend the night with them. After that… I was put in the foster system, right after I said good-bye to him."

"Do you remember his name?"

She thought for a second and said, "Lobo. Cause of his hair. And because-"

"Because he couldn't pronounce his name properly," finished Joaquín, unable to stop a smile from breaking out. It's been too long since I've heard that name.

"How do you know that," whispered Della, now even more confused than before. "Jojo, do… do you know him?"

"Yes. Yes I do. But not in the way you'd think." And so, Joaquín began his story.

"Sixteen years ago, my father went to New Jersey for three days. We were there to meet Yariel for a boxing event. One afternoon, he took me out to a playground, and I ended up meeting this girl there. She had freckles and curly hair. And we became fast friends that day, having fun, telling stories. She was really nice. I remember we both shared an ice cream that first day. We had such a good time that both our parents agreed to bring us back to meet again.

"This went on for three days. On the third day, we both asked our parents if we could have a sleepover. And they agreed. The girl and I went over to spend the night at her place. We had a good time and read some books, we ate a big dinner, and then we went to bed. A perfect ending to a perfect day." Joaquín let out a sad sigh, knowing what happened next. "Then, there was a break in. We ran to her parent's room, hid in their closet… and that was when two thieves began beating her parents to death.

Della's attentive silence broke, a quiet, "W-what," escaping her lips.

"And we both stood there, quiet and trying not to be seen. She was crying, and I was trying to comfort her. I was upset that this was happening, and that I couldn't save them no matter what I did. But I had to do something. So I did. I stepped out of that closet and beat them into submission. Me, a six-year-old, beating up two murderers. It was a miracle, really. But it brought no comfort to any of us. I had only prevented mine and the girl's deaths, but not her parents.

"After that, I had called the police, and we spent the night with my father. Despite my protests, we couldn't take her with us. She had to be put into a foster home. And so, the next day, I had to say goodbye to her. And that was the last I've seen her… That was, until just last month, when I met her in an alley just after I had finished a fight. And I didn't realize that girl was the one from my childhood that I saved until just now."

Throughout his entire story, Della could only look at Joaquín with confusion. It was as if she had been hearing him incorrectly. But in his last sentences, her eyes widened. Everything was beginning to dawn on her. With timid trepidation of what he would say next, she said, "Jojo… You mean… Lobo… That was… you..? You were... Lobo?"

He nodded. "Yeah... That was… is… me. And I didn't realize that I once knew you, that you were once Adi, until I opened the closet in that memory and saw myself… I'm sorry I didn't recognize you after all this time. I had forgotten that day… It's been too long and…"

He trailed off when he noticed Della had closed her eyes and was leaning her face closer to his. Joaquín couldn't help but do the same. He knew what she was about to do, and it made his heart beat hard in his chest. Silently, their hands found each others' cheeks, and their lips gently locked together. There was a comforting silence in the air now. The last few minutes felt as if they didn't exist. For this one, tender moment, nothing else mattered. Not their journey, not the memories of death. Just them.

They broke apart after a minute, both their cheeks flushed as they looked back at one another. He could see the pain and sadness in her eyes replaced with a look he had seen before whenever they spent time together. In those moments, he couldn't exactly describe what he saw in those soft green orbs. But now, in the aftermath of the battle and the revelations what came to light, he finally understood. She had been looking at him with love the entire time.

She loves me, he thought. And so do I.

No words were spoken as they kissed each other again. In the wake of another Stand attack, they once again found comfort in each others' company. Only this time, their bond strengthened beyond what it normally would. They had become more than just best friends, lifelong friends once separated and forgotten by tragedy. Joaquín couldn't feel any happier than at this moment.

In the several minutes they kissed, time seemed to have stopped. This moment was theirs and theirs alone.

~HAINES: RETIRED~

~DEVO THE CURSED (1959-1988): RIP~

STAND TIME

STAND USER: Haines (ヘインズ)

STAND NAME: Graveyard (墓地 (グレイブヤード))

POWER: D, SPEED: E, RANGE: E, DURABILITY: E, PRECISION: A, POTENTIAL: E

ABILITY: Graveyard requires touch in order for its ability to take effect. Once touched, it looks through its victims' minds for any memory involving death, be it repressed or forgotten entirely. It then replays the memory so vividly that the victim will feel as if they are there once again. If there are no memories, Graveyard will fabricate one real enough to make them think it actually happened. The memory plays in a two-minute loop, slowly stealing the life-force of its victims and eventually killing them due to the pain and grief. It can only be stopped by the victim (or whoever else shared the memory) finds a manifestation of Graveyard inside the visions of those who died.