Please do not perform the autopsy. Wait two hours. Minutes later, when the morgue is invaded and the body…
The nun mysteriously disappears, and the doctor is shaken as he realizes what really happened.
It could be a picture of a hospital.
But, but, what is this? Is it a tattoo? What is that on her body, Dr. Foseca? Camilo asked, taking two hurried steps back, as if something had pushed him.
His eyes were fixed on the motionless body on the metal gurney, and his voice trembled with uncertainty.
On the other side of the cold room, surrounded by white tiles and surgical instruments, Dr. Foseca, the most experienced surgeon in the place, who had just opened a cabinet in search of scalpels and knives, turned around with a frown.
“What do you mean by a tattoo? What did you see, Dr. Camilo?”
He asked clearly, intrigued, as he approached with slow steps. Lying on the stainless steel gurney was something not seen every day in that morgue: the body of a nun.
She was still wearing her black habit, which suited her young and delicate body very well.
Her face, pale and angelic, seemed more like that of someone in a deep sleep than someone alive, but she was dead and there was no clear explanation for her death.
Camilo, the younger of the two foremen, remained silent for a few seconds.
He waited for his colleague to approach, searching for the right words to describe what he had just witnessed.
“Did you see his tattoo, Camilo? Is that it?” the head doctor repeated, trying to understand what was troubling his colleague so much.
“I was watching her and noticed an opening in her habit. It looks like she has a tattoo on her back. I’m not sure,” he replied, visibly disturbed.
Foseca, with the composure of someone who has held that position for many years, crossed his arms and pondered: “Is it just your impression, or is it a tattoo?” he said, pausing briefly before concluding.
Not everyone follows the path of faith from a young age. Sometimes, one lives immersed in the world, marked by it, and only later dedicates oneself to religious life. It could be a memory from the past. Nothing strange.
Amilo took a deep breath, looked at his colleague, and asked him something he had perhaps kept to himself since the beginning of this tour.
And in all these years here, did you ever perform an autopsy or work in the morgue? Foseca, who had already been working in that morgue for more than a decade, raised his eyebrows. To be honest, I dreamt it.
I was surprised that the delegate sent the body here. You know, when an autopsy is performed, it’s because there’s suspicion of a crime, and murder is a cover-up. That seemed almost absurd to me.
My son Carlo Acutis revealed to me the prayer he used to say at 3 a.m. -tete
It stopped at the 61st minute… and no one understood why. -tete
Surreal or not, Camilo said in a more serious tone. We stood before the crowd and confessed that it intrigued me.
Foseca nodded. He seemed to understand his colleague’s unease. Then he began to prepare for the procedure.
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But before the autopsy could begin, an icy wind repeatedly invaded the room, causing the window to burst open with a crash.
The papers on the table flew, the instruments ticked. Camilo shuddered. His body reacted with a repeated chill. He turned immediately to the body on the stretcher and, with a lump in his throat, asked:
“Do you really think we should do this, doctor?”
“Touch a nun, someone sacred?” Foseca didn’t answer immediately, only letting out a long sigh. His gaze was fixed on the nun’s body, and he too felt the same chill.
Something had changed in the atmosphere. Even so, he spoke firmly. “This is our job, Camilo.”
Whoever it is, we need to find answers. We need to know the cause of death. He paused and finished.
Sometimes life presents us with things that seem wrong, but are necessary.
The young doctor, still hesitant, nodded. They both breathed deeply. The veteran then took the initiative. Let’s talk. Where did you say you saw something?
“It’s on my back,” Camilo replied. “Through the opening in the habit. There’s something there. It seems so.” Foseca approached the stretcher and examined it carefully. “Let me see.” As he drew closer, he leaned over the body.
Indeed, the black fabric of the habit had a small tear, and through it, a piece of skin and something strange on it could be seen.
A dark stain, small but visible. The forensic doctor then examined Camilo. They exchanged a brief, confirming glance. It was enough.
“Help me turn her over,” Foseca asked. With care and respect, the two doctors placed the nun’s body face down on the icy stretcher.
Before beginning, Foseca closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and murmured a prayer. She asked God for forgiveness, because even though it was her job, touching something sacred in that way caused her a tightness in her chest.
“Pass me some scissors,” she asked. Camilo handed him the instrument, and Foseca carefully began to cut the back of the habit, but it only took a few centimeters for his eyes to widen.
What he saw there wasn’t a simple tattoo, but an inscription, something written. “Is there any truth to this?” Foseca murmured, between surprise and curiosity. “I asked him, ‘Is there something there, something written?’ Camilo exclaimed, moving even closer.”
Driven by the desire to understand, Foseca quickened his movements, completely exposing the nun’s back.
And then, as if time had stopped, the two doctors remained motionless. Their eyes were wide open, their faces pale, speechless.
Neither of them dared to blink. Silence filled the room as if the morgue itself had suffocated them. Is that what I’m reading, Doctor?
“I’m not imagining it, am I?” “—Camilo asked, his voice breaking with fear. Foseca, still holding the scissors in his trembling hands, answered without taking his eyes off the description.
If you’re imagining it, so am I. As if I needed to make sure of what I was seeing, as if my eyes weren’t enough.”
The experienced Dr. Foseca extended his trembling hand and delicately slid his finger over the text.
His lips moved slowly as he read in a low voice the words engraved on the young woman’s back. Please, do not perform an autopsy on my body. Wait two hours.
What I need is in the pocket of my habit. The silence that followed was almost as still as the message.
Foseca, draped over his body, remained motionless for several seconds as if he were processing what had happened. It was absurd, inexplicable, unbelievable.
Camilo, overcome by an almost youthful tranquility, didn’t wait for further instructions.
He took a few steps forward, pulling the habit up into place. He quickly scanned the side of the black habit until he identified two discreet pockets sewn into the fabric.
The first one was fine, but when he put his fingers in the second one, he felt something. His eyes widened. “Dr. Foseca, there’s something here.”
It looks small, it looks like… He slowly pulled out the object and then finished the sentence, his voice trembling with astonishment. It was as if time stood still for a moment.
Camilo was left holding the small USB device in his hand as Foseca slowly approached. The older man took the object and turned it between his fingers.
It was made of black plastic, common, seemingly harmless, but the sensation that enveloped it was anything but relaxing. What could be inside?
Camilo asked, now with a slightly firmer tone of voice, although his servility was evident.
Foseca examined the pepper for a few seconds and then looked at his colleague.
If that message is true, if she herself left it, then this person can consider some proof, some answer about what happened with this woman.
He paused briefly and said: It’s strange that the police didn’t find him. Perhaps they searched for him with such determination. But now that it’s in our hands, let’s find out together what happened.
Continued on the next page
