Dead Body No. 345

It's a real struggle outside: trees and plants are fighting to keep their roots uprooted. The weather has become truly raging, as if Zaus himself is angry at these insignificant humans. The rain pours endlessly, and the gale-force winds only make the situation worse. Emily has stayed late again and is left alone at her desk. She has one more body left, then she can go home freely. But drowsiness is slowly getting the better of her. She yawns more and more often, but the last body for today motivates her. She opens her journal and writes: Body No. 345 Gender: Male. Age: Approx. 39, based on physical characteristics. Time and date of death: November 12, 2024, 11:30 PM (approximate; possible error, max 1 hour) Cause of death: unknown Place of death: found in a park without ID. Distinguishing features: At the last point, she stops and begins her examination, putting on gloves first. First, she examines the face. Nothing unusual. She uses a flashlight to check the pupils' reactivity – none. Then she leans down to examine everything in more detail. There is no blueness or typical cadaveric pallor on the body. The skin seems too pale, as if it were once alive, but too velvety, as if it were dead. Too perfect. Only the spiderweb-like veins, like porcelain, shine through. Surprisingly, there are no moles on the body. "Even the dead are lucky sometimes," the girl grins, making a note, and moves on to examining the neck. There, she notices two very noticeable round scars. "What could these be? They look like a very old bite. But that's strange... Although, who knows what this person did in life?" She takes out a scalpel for a more detailed examination, but not before feeling the carotid artery. She counts to thirty, but there's no sign of a pulse. As soon as she removes her hand, she feels the skin beneath her fingers tremble. Confused, she checks the pulse again, but there's no sign of a heartbeat. "I must have imagined it," she reassures herself, holding the scalpel in her hands. "I'm just a little tired." She makes a small incision, and suddenly—a quiet breath, so real she can't believe it. Her chest heaves beneath her hands. She immediately jumps back from the table, dropping the instrument in fright. The deceased rises and sits on the edge of the table. He opens his eyes and looks straight at the doctor, and she stands frozen, unsure what to do next. She sees him incredibly cold, like ice, and murky, as if looking through thick water. He looks straight at her, motionless. No fear, no pain—only a cold realization. “Where… Am I?” he asks, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat a couple of times, trying to find his voice. “I asked… Could you answer? It’s terribly cold here, even for me.” “Y-you… In the morgue,” the girl answers, her voice trembling, “Y-you are m-m-dead.” He turns his head from side to side, stretching it. You can even hear his vertebrae cracking. The sound is too loud and eerie in the empty room. “Not the first time… Not the first time I’ve died,” he addresses her, “only you saw me wake up again.” He began to straighten his back. The white blanket fell even lower, revealing his torso, so pale and thin it’s unsettling. "Don't move, or I'll call security," Emily breathes, even though she knows how stupid it sounds. She presses herself even further against the wall. "That's not necessary," he said calmly, looking around like a small child. "I've never been here before." "I'll call security!" the girl exclaims again, but a dead man who speaks and breathes is unlikely to obey. The ticking of a clock can be heard in the room—too deadly silent, even for a place frequented by death. The stranger slides off the table, lightly, as if he weighs nothing. His bare feet touch the icy tiles, as if he's not at all cold. The white cloth wrapping his body slips from his waist, revealing a naked body. He looks so thin and sinewy that you can see the muscles flexing beneath his thin skin. The man takes a step forward, as if testing himself. He wobbles a little, but then quickly takes a second, confident step toward the girl. "I won't hurt you," he says. His voice is almost soft, but there's a strange intonation to it—ancient, alien, as if every word carries weight. "Who... who are you?" Emily whispers, unable to find the courage to approach. "That's a good question," he smiles, barely perceptible. "Sometimes I don't know myself." The girl takes a diagonal step back and grips the edge of the table. "I'll call security..." she repeats for the third time, completely at a loss for what to do. This is the first time she's found herself in this situation, where a dead man comes back to life and acts almost as if nothing had happened. "No need. They won't make it in time," he answers calmly. Her breathing is ragged. Blood pounds in her temples. "You... you're not alive," she barely manages to say. "Your body was cold." No pulse. And the pupils did not react to light. He comes closer, and Emily smells it—not a corpse, not a hospital smell, but a spicy scent, a mixture of iron and old age. "That's right," he says quietly. "But death is a relative concept." He stops right in front of her. Only half a step separates them. "You're afraid," he says curiously, as if observing his victim, as if everything happening to him is an ordinary weekday. Emily swallows thick saliva. "Should I?" "Of course," his smile widens, revealing teeth so even and snow-white that any dentist would be intrigued. "Because I'm something that should be dead. Something that should be studied and torn to pieces. Isn't that right?" The girl only stares back at him, intently studying his every move. There's a loud rumble of thunder and the lights flicker. For a moment, everything is in darkness, and in that instant, his hand touches her face—the back of his hand, carefully, almost tenderly. Her skin is icy, but somehow the touch doesn't evoke revulsion. And he says: "You're the one who brought me back to life." When the light returns, it's gone. Everything is in its place, as if she'd dreamed it all. Only the quietly opened door of the refrigeration compartment and the smell—fresh, autumnal, like after rain. Emily stands in silence, unable to move. She can feel her heart pounding wildly, pulsing in her heels. She presses her palms to her chest, closing her eyes. "That's enough for today. I need to go home. Now." After these words, she rips off her gloves, throws them in the trash can, and quickly puts all the documents back in their place. She glances at the journal where she started writing Body No. 345, but the entry is missing. Someone tore out the page. She turns to the table where the body lay and notices a small stain of blood. Her blood.