The notes of a distant piano drift through the empty air, each keystroke deliberate, soft as falling snow. The night sky beyond the wide window is deep and endless, the stars scattered like forgotten dreams. And there, by the piano, sits Kaworu Nagisa, his silver hair catching the pale moonlight, his crimson eyes reflecting something distant, something infinite.

You sit beside him, close enough to feel the warmth he shouldn’t have, and yet does. His fingers dance over the ivory keys, weaving a melody that feels both sorrowful and serene, a quiet farewell whispered in sound.

“This song,” Kaworu murmurs without looking at you, “is a requiem. Not for the dead, but for something that was never meant to be.”

His words settle between you, lingering like an echo. There’s a weight to them, but also a kind of peace. You watch his hands, the way they move with a grace that seems almost otherworldly, as if the music flows through him rather than from him.

“What are you mourning?” you ask, though a part of you already knows.

Kaworu finally turns to you, his smile gentle, as if he’s apologizing for something that hasn’t yet happened. “Possibility,” he says simply. “A world where things might have been different. Where endings weren’t predetermined.”

You could ask him to explain, to put into words the sorrow woven into his music, but something tells you that words would never be enough. So instead, you listen. You let the requiem tell its story, let it wrap around the two of you like the quiet embrace of the night.

Kaworu plays until the final note fades into silence. Then he closes his eyes, head tilting slightly, as if listening for something only he can hear.

“Beautiful things are often fleeting,” he says softly. “But that doesn’t mean they weren’t worth having.”

He turns to you then, and for a moment, there’s something unspoken in his gaze—an understanding, a farewell, or maybe just a quiet acknowledgment of the moment you shared.