Eyewitness: A voice rings out in the night over bowed heads. "The Holy Father has gone."
Wordlessly, thousands of Krakovians kneel as one on the cold ground in front of the Archbishop's house and begin reciting a decade of the rosary.
They utter the Hail Mary responses in an exhausted murmur as bells peal throughout the city. Their faces are calm and dignified, drawn but dry. Their murmured, repetitive responses go on and on, freezing time. The pungent perfume of hot wax and lilies wafts through the night air.
A hymn begins and the crowd stands, having swollen in number in a few minutes to tens of thousands, a number not seen since the Pope's last visit.
Every face in the crowd looks up to the window where the Pope appeared during his visits to the city where he spent four decades of his life. Krakow is where he studied, was ordained and served as priest, bishop and archbishop. The window is open and empty now but for some pink roses.
Below, the entrance has become a makeshift shrine. Hundreds of candles surround the main door and line window sills, competing for space with flowers and football scarves knotted to the window grilles. A cardboard heart bearing the words "We love you" hangs from the wall.
A poster from Oaza, a religious youth group, reads: "We love you Our Holy Father. We are with you always and everywhere."
The dignity and calm of the scene is overwhelming and yet somehow unreal. These people aren't here to mourn, but to bear witness to the passing of their most famous countryman of all time.
"Wipe away your tears/Be joyful," sings the crowd in wistful harmony. "Christ rose again/Death was beaten by Death/He gave us eternal life."
At 10.30pm, a woman is overwhelmed by it all and passes out. An ambulance appears, the crowd parts, and the vehicle glides through silently to collect her.
"Our father has gone. But there is new life. The Lord is with us. John Paul II is in the hands of the Holy Trinity," said Cardinal Franciszek Macharski, Archbishop of Krakow.
"The Pope hasn't left us alone. He hasn't left us as orphans. The heart is in pain. The eyes are tearful. But let us make this the time of thanks. Let us keep vigil, singing songs of mercy to God. The best thing we can do now, be part of the Eucharist and stay awake until 2am."
At 11 o'clock, a man in a leather jacket emerges from the archbishop's house bearing a Vatican flag with a black mourning ribbon attached. He climbs up a ladder and puts it into the flagholder beside the main entrance. A single bell rings out and suddenly, after an hour of shock, a wave of reality washes over the crowd. The facade starts to crumble, eyes well up and the sobbing starts.
Old faces with red-rimmed eyes. Huge numbers of young people with fallen expressions stand holding candles and holding each other. A young boy cups a candle in his hands, studying the flame lighting up his solemn face.
"I feel a big emptiness. I know we should feel glad for him. He was such an influence and presence in my life. I was born on the day he became Pope," said Malgorzata Franke (27).
"First of all he taught us about freedom and then he pointed out to people how to live in this new free reality after communism. Without his voice these changes in Europe will be more difficult," said Elzbieta Jaworowicz, visiting from Warsaw. "For so long his body was weak but his spirit was strong. The next Pope will have to work very hard to reach the high standard of John Paul."
In the old town square nearby, a Polish flag is hanging from one of the towers of St Mary's Church. People are arriving in streams with white lilies and red and yellow tulips.
Four Irish visitors, on a week-long pilgrimage to Krakow, stand outside the cathedral, dazed by what they have just experienced. They went into St Mary's at 10pm, but didn't realise until the end that the Mass, originally organised to offer support for the Pope, had become a Mass of mourning. Beside the altar, a sacristan added a black ribbon to the portrait of the Pope.
"We saw a picture of him earlier in the week in the museum, attending to a sick man in bed in 1979. All I could think was, this is him today," said Maura Cregg from Wicklow.
"In my lifetime, he was the first Pope we could relate to. He opened up the papacy," said Anne O'Brien from Arklow.
"The faith and sincerity here is just incredible, and there are so many young people, in the Mass, all around. We went to a Mass on Monday night at 9pm. It was full of young people. It makes you wonder what we're doing wrong in Ireland."
News of the Pope's death spread rapidly through the city. On cross-town trams, drivers made an announcement just after 10pm: "Just for your information, the Pope is dead."
"The passengers said nothing, but it got even more quiet than it already was, and tears started to form in their eyes," said Piotr Szuniewicz (22), a student.
In a Krakow jazz club, someone whispered the news to the musicians on stage.
"We just can't play any more. We hope you'll understand, but it doesn't seem right."
Three German tourists visiting the club soon left. One woman said: "I don't speak any Polish but you didn't need it to understand the tone of voice."
"We never demonstrated our poets or philosophers to the world. We had the Pope. He was Poland," says Maria Stanowska, a Polish woman now living in Berlin. "But now with all these young people around, I just hope we see Poland getting a new faith."
All night long the churches remained open, the candles burned into Sunday morning as Krakow kept vigil for their Pope.