When I look in the mirror, I see an ordinary person—tall, with dark circles under my eyes from fatigue and an unkempt haircut, evoking neither fear nor admiration. My typical sports pants and worn-out shirt signify nothing exceptional, only highlighting the mundanity of my existence. At first glance, I could be anyone: a teacher, a shopkeeper, or a librarian; people wouldn’t suspect that my life is closely tied to corpses.
They call me Red, a pseudonym that has overshadowed my real name so much that I’m surprised to see it on my ID. I am a forensic expert, spending my days examining the dead. My life is filled with silence, where most would prefer to turn away, and behind every corpse is a story I strive to uncover. The dim light of the morgue created a strange atmosphere, permeated by coldness and heaviness. I stood among the rigid metal tables, surrounded by carefully arranged instruments, as though they were tools of a self-proclaimed god, governed only by the laws of science.
I peered into the illuminated faces of the victims, like open books filled with unsolved puzzles. Fatigue weighed heavily on me; that night, I was once again trying to unravel the mysteries left by the corpses. As I began my work, darkness fell, and the only sound in the morgue was the hum of my tools. The pressure of the silent stillness was palpable; I felt trapped in this room with the dead, who seemed to harbor secrets of a greater narrative. The work progressed slowly, with every minute drawing me deeper into vivid images, their whispers growing louder. Suddenly, the distinct clatter of one of my instruments fell to the floor, drops of blood timidly spreading across the tiles, and I jolted, my heart racing.Memories flooded back—the sweet scent of the forest and the rustling of leaves, as I sensed I was hearing a name. I closed my eyes, and in that moment, a wave of nostalgia engulfed me.
It was the name of my first love, gently taken by illness, a mystery even for science.
I recalled the moment I entered this morgue as a grieving witness rather than an expert, and I was overcome by guilt, this case was more important than anything. Every stitch, every mark on the body could tell its story, and I knew to uncover the truth, I had to listen, even when they were silent. Taking a deep breath, I dove into the routine, barely noticing how the dead began to whisper their tales to me again. At that moment, my phone rang. I didn’t take my eyes off the victim as I answered:"we found another one. This time in the woods. Seriously, you need to see this…” he said, urgency evident in his voice.
For a moment, all ghosts and losses evaporated, replaced by a new wave of fear and questions about someone hiding in the shadows. I felt that this case might be the one I had dreamed of throughout my career. It had the potential not only to solve a crime but to bring me back to life. With that realization, I left the morgue behind, leaving the ghosts, though deep down I knew they would follow me until I uncovered the truth. Thirty minutes after the call, I arrived at the crime scene.
The sky was shrouded in a gloomy cloud cover, as if nature itself was foreboding something terrible. The woods where the victim was found looked dark and mysterious; the branches intertwined as if deliberately trying to hide from curious gazes all the events that transpired under their thick canopy. The rustle of leaves beneath my feet sounded ominous. I walked past shards of glass and scraps of fabric discarded on the ground, but what mainly caught my attention was the body.
The girl lay among the broken and bloodied branches, appearing as a lifeless doll left to fate.Blood seeping through and soaking into the ground, leaving traces of grief behind. Her face was turned towards the high sky, and even in death, it retained traces of careless beauty, yet at the same time conveyed anxiety and suffering, as if she had desperately tried to free herself from the chains of eternity.