Clara breathed in the familiar hush of the morgue. The overhead fluorescents hummed softly, casting pale light over tiled walls and steel tables. Routine, she told herself. Routine would steady her. She smoothed a hand down the front of her lab coat and turned back to her work. A man''s body lay on the slab before her, limp and grey under the unforgiving light. He''d been mid-forties, maybe, with hair still more brown than silver and a jaw that hinted he might once have worn a friendly smile. Now his features sagged in slack repose. Only the Y-shaped autopsy stitch across his chest told the story of what came after his heart had given out.
Her hands moved automatically, cleansing and preparing. A sponge dipped in mild soap glided over a pale arm, wiping away the last traces of dried blood and hospital tape. Just another day, she thought, willing the pounding of her heart to slow. The events of last week — the bath, the terror that still clenched at her lungs in unguarded moments — those didn''t belong here. In this sterile sanctuary of the dead, she could almost believe life outside paused, that fear itself waited beyond the double doors.
The scent of formaldehyde curled in the cool air, sharp and antiseptic. Clara had always found it oddly reassuring, the olfactory equivalent of a surgeon''s blue scrubs — professional, distancing, safe. It helped her believe that what happened in her bathroom was some feverish nightmare, and not... not something reaching for her from beyond sense. She shut her eyes, just for a moment, and inhaled deeply. When she opened them, her gaze fell on the corpse''s face. His eyes were closed, lids slightly sunken. She reached to adjust the plastic block propping up his neck, preparing to tilt his head for drainage—and stopped.
A faint whisper drifted through the stillness. "Please... not yet..." The words were so soft she almost thought she imagined them. Clara''s gloved hands froze in mid-air. She glanced toward the door — firmly shut. The sound hadn''t come from the hall. Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, she looked down at the dead man. His lips were parted, slack. Impossible. And yet she''d heard...
All at once, a vision flickered through her mind: darkness, the taste of copper, a crushing pain in the chest. Clara staggered, one hand braced on the metal table. It was as if she were suddenly inside him — inside his final moments. She felt his desperation, the raw panic of a heart seizing mid-beat. A flash of fluorescent lights blurred overhead (an ambulance? a hospital gurney?), then a woman''s voice screaming his name — "Tom!" — just before everything went black.
Clara blinked hard and the vision vanished, leaving only the corpse and the cool morgue and her own pulse skittering wildly in her throat. The man''s body hadn''t moved, of course. But in her ears the echo of that single plea lingered: "Please... not yet." It sent a prickle of gooseflesh up her arms. She backed away a step, trying to steady herself. Her hip bumped the stainless steel counter where her clipboard lay.
For a long moment, Clara simply stood, the only sound her measured breathing and the electric buzz of the lights. She waited for something — a voice, a tremor, any further sign that she was descending into madness. But nothing came. Nothing except the quiet company of Death, patient and impassive at her shoulder. This wasn''t the first time the silence of the morgue had bent around a whisper that should not be. But never had it been so clear, so... personal.
Her mouth had gone dry. She peeled off her right glove and pressed cool fingertips to the side of her neck, feeling the flutter of her own pulse. Alive. Present. Sane? Who could say. With a practiced motion, she slid a small leather notebook out from beneath the clipboard. Its pages were thin, many filled with her tight script — a private log of things she could tell no one. She flipped to the next blank page and, with a pencil that trembled only slightly, began to write in crisp, scientific lines:
Subject: Thomas G. (male, 46) – massive cardiac infarction.
Event: Auditory hallucination (male voice, low, approx 2–3 words) at 10:14 AM. Phrase heard: "Please... not yet."
Associated phenomena: Visual disturbance – brief flash of imagery possibly corresponding to decedent''s final moments (subjective sensation of chest pain, fear; auditory memory of someone calling name "Tom").
Action: No response from subject''s body. No other witnesses. Likely stress-induced hallucination. Continue observation.
Clara read over what she''d written, jaw tight. Hallucination. The clinical word sat heavy on the page. She preferred it to the alternative: that something of Thomas G. — call him Tom, a voice in her mind insisted — still clung to the world and had found her. That possibility was far harder to accept.
She drew a slow breath, then deliberately shut the notebook and slid it back into obscurity under the clipboard. The pencil she set down with care. Enough. She had work to do. Tom''s body still needed tending before the funeral home courier arrived this evening. And Clara needed to focus on normal things — sutures, embalming fluid, paperwork — anything but voices of the dead.
She snapped off the overhead lamp above the exam table, briefly drenching the room in flat grey light. As she reached for her discarded glove, a sound at the doorway made her jump. A soft clearing of someone''s throat. Clara whirled, heart lurching. In the doorway stood a tall figure in a charcoal suit, one hand raised in a hesitant knock that had barely touched the frame. Detective Gabriel Aldrin, in the flesh.
He lowered his hand, an apologetic half-smile on his lips. "Sorry. I did knock... You seemed a bit... absorbed." His voice was gentle, a baritone tempered by quiet reserve. It echoed just slightly in the tiled room.
Clara flexed her fingers, realisation washing over her. How long had he been standing there? If he''d come thirty seconds earlier... Her gaze flickered to the clipboard — her notes were covered now, thank God. The toe of her sensible shoe slid over a drop of water on the floor, erasing it. No evidence of her momentary lapse remained. Composure, routine, normalcy. She tugged her glove back on and lifted her chin. "Gabriel," she greeted coolly. "It''s alright. I was just... finishing up."
Gabriel stepped inside, the door sighing shut behind him. He carried with him a whisper of the outside world — the faint scent of rain on pavement clinging to his coat, a hint of cologne that was all cedar and vetiver. In the close air of the morgue, those living smells felt almost indecent. Clara found herself strangely aware of a smudge of stubble just along his jaw that the morning razor missed, of the way a lock of his dark blond hair fell across his forehead as he glanced toward the covered shape of another body on a gurney. He didn''t quite fit here among the dead; too much restless energy in the way his gaze moved, taking everything in.
She realised he was speaking and dragged her focus back. "...hope I''m not intruding," Gabriel was saying quietly. He had stopped a respectful distance from her workspace, hands in his pockets. Clara noticed he clutched something in one fist — a folded manila file. "I know it''s unusual for me to just drop by. But I came across something I thought you might help me with."
Clara arched a dark brow, forcing her voice into a dry, steady cadence. "Someone in Homicide in need of a mortician''s help? Should I be flattered or concerned?"
The corner of Gabriel''s mouth twitched. "You do more than just mortician work here, if I recall. You assist the coroner sometimes, right? And you have... other areas of expertise." He nodded toward the far end of the room. Following his gaze, Clara saw what he''d noticed: pinned to a corckboard above her desk was a single brittle-winged moth, mounted in a glass frame. Its once-vibrant orange and black pattern had long faded, but the tiny skull-like shape on its thorax was still visible. A death''s-head hawkmoth. Her fingers twitched with the urge to hide it — she usually kept her odd hobbies out of sight — but the detective''s observational skills were evidently very good.
"I remember things," Gabriel added softly. "When we first met, you were sketching a beetle in the margins of a report."
Clara did not recall him noticing that. She felt a small pang of... what was it, embarrassment? No, she refused to be embarrassed. So she liked insects; so what? She tilted her head, studying him with cool hazel eyes. "Alright. Say I do have some expertise. What exactly do you need, "Detective"?"
He blew out a breath, as if relieved to get to the point. Stepping closer, he held out the manila file. "I was reviewing some cold cases last night — looking for patterns related to... to a case I''m working now. I found a crime scene photo with an odd marking. Something that looked familiar." He flipped open the file and withdrew a glossy photograph. "Here."
Clara accepted the photo, careful to only graze his fingers briefly. Still, that momentary contact felt warm against the lingering chill of the morgue. She focused on the image: a close-up of a man''s neck and jaw. Just below the left earlobe, partly obscured by hair, was a mark on the skin. Even in the slightly unfocused shot, she could make out the shape — wings spread, a rounded body, a pattern that looked eerily like a skull. It was unmistakably similar to what she''d glimpsed on the recent victims Gabriel and his partner had been investigating.
"A moth," she murmured. Her mind immediately supplied the taxonomy: Acherontia atropos, the death''s-head hawkmoth. The symbol of death and quietly creeping omens. Clara''s stomach gave a small flip. This photo was dated five years ago, according to the faded timestamp in the corner. Five years, and presumably no one had connected it to anything — until Gabriel.
Beside her, he nodded. "I thought the same. It matches the brand on the victims we found this month. I wasn''t around for this old case, but I''m digging into it now." He ran a hand through his hair, tousling it absently — a gesture of restrained agitation. "Thing is, the case file doesn''t note the marking at all. It was just in a photo. Might have been overlooked."
"Or ignored," Clara said quietly, still studying the photo. Whoever placed that moth marking had been operating in secret for longer than anyone realised. She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morgue. Death does not come alone. The phrase drifted up from her memory — she''d seen it scrawled in Latin on a sticky note in one of the autopsy reports last week, an odd little detail that tugged at her now. But she kept that thought to herself. Gently, she handed the photo back. "It''s definitely the same motif. A moth with a skull pattern. The Death''s-head."
Gabriel looked at her sharply. "Death''s-head?"
She allowed herself the faintest of smiles. "That particular genus of moth is often called a Death''s-head hawkmoth. In some folklore, they''re seen as omens or messengers of death. Rather on-the-nose for a killer''s calling card, don''t you think?"
He huffed a soft breath that might have been a laugh. "On-the-nose. Right." He regarded the photo, jaw working as if he were biting back a dozen more questions. Clara could practically see the gears turning behind his green eyes. He had lovely eyes, actually — a muted shade of olive that should have been unremarkable, yet on him they were keen and absorbing. At the moment, they were clouded with frustration and intrigue.
"I can''t tell if the person who did this is indulging a fascination with death, or mocking us," he said at last. "Leaving a signature like this... it''s brazen. Almost begging to be noticed." Clara leaned one hip against the steel table, arms crossing loosely over her chest. She''d regained her composure now; the strange incident with Tom''s whisper was compartmentalised neatly away — another thing to deal with later. Right now, Gabriel Aldrin''s presence demanded her attention. "And yet it went unnoticed for years," she pointed out. "Perhaps your moth-loving friend is more patient than brazen. Laying groundwork. Or testing the waters."
Gabriel regarded her with open curiosity. "You sound as if you''re profiling them."
She shrugged one shoulder. "Occupational hazard. I spend a lot of time with dead folks — I speculate about what brought them to me." Technically true, if vastly understating the situation. Clara allowed herself a wry twist of her lips. "Besides, you didn''t really come here because I''m an insect enthusiast. You already knew what the symbol was."
That earned her a real smile, however brief. "I suppose I did," he admitted. "Mostly. But I was hoping you might notice something I hadn''t, or confirm my theory. And..." He trailed off, apparently fascinated all of a sudden by the floor at his feet. Clara waited, watching him fumble for once. She had the distinct sense there was more he wasn''t saying. The fact that he was here, in person, on the flimsiest of pretenses, hinted as much — and the thought sent a small ripple of satisfaction through her. It had been a long time since she''d had any effect on a living soul outside of professional courtesies. To see Gabriel Aldrin uncharacteristically unsure of himself was... oddly charming.
"And?" she prompted, tilting her head. A few loose strands of her dark hair slipped from her bun to brush her cheek, and Gabriel''s eyes followed the movement before he caught himself.
He cleared his throat. "And I thought you might want an update. On the case, I mean. Given what you...witnessed before." His voice gentled. "At the hospital."
Clara''s stomach clenched. Yes—she''d been present when the second victim of this killer was brought in, a week ago. The sight of that lifeless boy — barely twenty — with a moth branded behind his ear, still haunted her nights. She had masked it at the time, but Gabriel had seen through her calm veneer; he knew it disturbed her. It touched her, more than she expected, that he remembered.
"I appreciate that," she said softly. "But I''m alright." A practiced lie. She delivered it with a small, polite smile that gave away nothing. One step ahead.
Gabriel studied her face, as if those green eyes could peel back her layers. But Clara was nothing if not composed. After a moment he nodded, accepting her statement. He believed her. Of course he did; she was very good at hiding the cracks. The truth — that she woke sweating from nightmares of hands dragging her under dark water and of young men''s corpses with burnt flesh — she kept that to herself.
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"Well," he said, exhaling, "I won''t keep you. I''ve taken enough of your time." His tone returned to a gently formal cadence, polite but reluctant. He gathered the file and photo, slipping them back inside the folder. Clara realised she almost felt disappointed at the thought of him leaving so soon. How long had it been since a conversation with another living being left her wanting more?
As if echoing her thought, Gabriel hesitated. He didn''t step away. Instead, he lingered a few beats, his fingers drumming lightly on the file''s cover. She recognised that subtle tension — he had something else on his mind. The corners of her mouth twitched; he really wasn''t as inscrutable as he thought. Out with it, Gabriel.
Sure enough, he inhaled and spoke in a rush, as though afraid his courage might fail. "There is one more thing, actually." He lifted his gaze to hers, and for the first time since he entered, Clara saw a hint of uncertainty — almost boyish — in his expression. "Have you heard about the lantern festival by the river? The annual one."
Clara blinked. The abrupt change of subject wrong-footed her. "I... yes. I''ve heard of it." Every year the city held a lantern festival down by the River Elkie, a night of paper lanterns and floating lights and wishes sent into the sky. She normally ignored it, preferring the quiet of home and a book. A sudden image of glowing lanterns reflected in dark water flashed through her mind, and with it, the echo of distant, joyful laughter — her mother''s laughter — but she forced it away. "Why?"
Gabriel gave a small, almost self-conscious laugh and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Well, it''s tomorrow evening. I was thinking of going... and I thought, perhaps, you might like to go too."
For an instant, Clara wondered if she''d misheard. Was Detective Aldrin asking her out? In the morgue, with a corpse between them and formaldehyde perfuming the air? The sheer absurdity of it made her lips part in a brief, breathy laugh before she could stop herself. "You''re inviting me to a lantern festival?" she asked, incredulous but undeniably amused.
He caught her tone and grimaced, his ears tinging a faint red at the tips. "I realise it''s a bit out of left field. You don''t have to, of course. I just—" He paused, searching for the right words. "You''ve had a rough go of it lately. I thought an evening out, something lighter... it might be nice." Quickly, as if to cover the softness of that suggestion, he added, "Besides, I owe you. For all your help with the case. Consider it a thank you."
A thank you. Clara pressed her lips together to hide a smile. How neatly he tried to package this invitation, as if it were a professional courtesy and not something far more personal shining in his eyes. He wouldn''t even admit it to himself; she could see him grasping at justifications like lifelines. Lanterns and lies, she mused silently. They were both guilty of those—he of the little lie that this was only gratitude, she of the pretense that the idea didn''t send her heart fluttering with both intrigue and dread.
The silence stretched a beat too long. Gabriel shifted on his feet, clearly mistaking her hesitation for rejection. He rushed into the breach: "It''s fine, you probably have plans. Forget I asked." His disappointment was evident in the way he dropped his gaze, and Clara felt a pang she hadn''t expected. There was such genuine goodness in his invitation — awkward as it was — and an earnest loneliness that matched her own. To turn him down outright felt wrong.
"No—wait," she found herself saying. "I''m just... surprised." She peeled off her gloves, buying herself a moment. Her fingers were pale where the gloves had pressed them. "I haven''t been to the festival in years." Not since childhood, she nearly added, but caught herself. The memory was rising up unbidden, despite her attempts to tamp it down.
A night of soft summer air and lantern-light dancing on black water. Clara could almost smell the river, earthy and damp, and hear her younger siblings giggling as they crouched on the muddy bank with paper lanterns in hand.
Nine-year-old Clara stood knee-deep in wet grass by the river, a rice-paper lantern cradled between her small hands. All around her bobbed other lights, hundreds of them, as families up and down the banks prepared to set their lanterns free. The warm glow of candles painted golden halos on her companions'' faces. Her little brother was beside her, tongue sticking out in concentration as he scrawled a wish on the side of his lantern with a stubby marker. Her sister, only six, was clapping her hands in excitement as their mother knelt to help light the wick inside her pink paper globe.
"Don''t let it go yet," Clara whispered, eyes wide as her sister''s lantern began to glow from within. Their mother smiled up at them, the gentle light catching in her hazel eyes — eyes so much like Clara''s own. God, she was beautiful, Clara thought with a child''s adoration. Not in the way of film stars or magazine covers, but in the way sunlight looked on the first warm day of spring: bright, comforting, life-giving. Her mother''s hair was escaping its braid in dark, windblown tendrils. She laughed as the youngest nearly released her lantern too early, and that sound — that rich, unguarded laugh — wrapped around Clara like a hug.
"Alright, wishes ready?" her mother asked, producing a marker for Clara and her brother. Clara nodded and uncapped hers, heart thumping with the importance of the task. What to wish for? In the distance, a voice over a loudspeaker counted down to the release — they had only a minute or two. Around them people were scrawling final messages, hopes, prayers on the thin paper shells.
Clara''s little brother finished with a flourish and held up his lantern. "I wished for a new bike," he declared proudly. Typical. Her sister chimed, "I wished that Mummy will take us to the seaside!" This earned an affectionate nudge and a promise of "We''ll see," from their mother.
Clara bit her lip, marker hovering. There was only one thing she truly wanted, but it felt almost too big to put into words. She glanced at her mother, who was busy coaxing her brother to not tip his lantern and spill the candle. Be brave, Clara told herself, and with careful strokes she wrote on the rice paper: I wish Mum will always be happy. She drew a tiny heart next to the words, cheeks warming at her own sentimentality. But it felt right. If anyone deserved unending happiness, it was the woman who gave them everything.
"Ready, love?" Her mother was looking at her now. The countdown was at ten... nine... The woman''s face was aglow, proud and a little wistful all at once. Clara suddenly wanted to throw her arms around her, to cling to her warmth and never let go. But the chant of voices reached three... two... one, and it was time.
"Go on, Clara," her mother whispered, palm gentle on her back. Together they lowered the lantern to the water''s surface and released. Clara''s small fingers hesitated as the current caught the paper orb. Then it was drifting away, a soft golden star on the river''s dark ribbon. One by one, hundreds of lanterns joined it, a constellation of earthly stars carrying the wishes of so many into the night. Clara watched hers intently. Please let it come true, she prayed fervently. Her mother deserves this wish.
Beside her, her mother wrapped an arm around Clara''s shoulders and held her close as they gazed out at the water. "What did you wish for, my darling?" she asked.
Clara leaned into her, head against the familiar softness of her coat. She answered truthfully, voice almost lost amid the joyous commotion, "That you''d always be happy."
Her mother went very still. Then Clara felt a kiss pressed to the crown of her head. "Oh, my sweet girl," her mother murmured, a catch in her throat. "That''s one I''ll cherish." Under the blanket of night, mother and daughter stood entwined, watching the lantern of Clara''s wish float farther and farther away, until it was just one pinpoint of light among many on the horizon. Clara breathed in her mother''s scent — lavender and fresh bread and home — committing it to memory. A strange sadness tugged at her chest, even in the midst of that magic. Some part of her, even then, wondered if wishes ever truly reached the stars.
"Clara?" Gabriel''s voice pulled her back to the present with a soft hook of concern. Clara blinked rapidly, the river and lights dissolving into cold white morgue tiles and the steady gaze of the detective. She realised her eyes had gone unfocused, fixed somewhere middle-distance as the memories washed over her. Straightening, she brushed an escaped tear (when had that formed?) from the corner of her eye. Thank god, the gesture could be passed off as simple fatigue.
"Sorry," she said, summoning a faint smile. "Long night yesterday." A half-truth; she had hardly slept, plagued by dreams both old and new.
Gabriel''s brows drew together, worry evident. He opened his mouth, perhaps to retract the invitation and spare her, but Clara lifted a hand slightly, forestalling him. "The festival... I would like to go." The words left her before her anxiety could stop them. Her heart gave a traitorous thump. What was she doing? She hadn''t been near that river during the festival in well over a decade. The idea of returning there — to that night and all it meant — unsettled her more than she cared to admit. Yet here she was, agreeing anyway. Perhaps it was the way Gabriel''s face lit with unguarded surprise and something like gratitude. Perhaps it was that single memory of her mother''s laugh, urging her toward a warmth she''d avoided for too long.
"Really?" he said, a slow smile blooming. For a man who usually maintained a cool professional fa?ade, the sudden brightness in his expression was almost endearing. He checked himself, smoothing his features, but couldn''t entirely banish the pleased crinkle at the corner of his eyes. "Great. That''s... great."
Clara found herself charmed by his fumbling. She tilted her head, considering him with a clinical air just to see him squirm a bit - it did, after all, come so naturally to tease him. "Are you sure this isn''t an elaborate interrogation tactic, Detective? Lure the mortuary worker out to a festival, ply her with street food, see if she spills all her secrets?"
Gabriel chuckled, a genuine sound that warmed the cool room. "Damn. You''ve caught me. The funnel-cake-and-confession ploy is a classic at ECI." He relaxed then, one hand slipping into his trouser pocket as he regarded her with a matching playfulness. "In truth, I''m not on duty tomorrow night. I was just hoping for some company." A slight pause, then more softly, "I''m glad it''ll be yours."
It was Clara''s turn to be caught off guard. Something in the way he said that — unpretentious, sincere — left her momentarily at a loss. She always managed to stay one step ahead in these verbal dances, but now her witty retort tangled on her tongue. Feeling a flush creep up her neck, she responded simply, "Thank you for asking me."
Gabriel must have noticed that faint colour in her cheeks, because he glanced away with a faintly self-satisfied grin, as if pleased to have unsettled her composure for once. The realisation made Clara simultaneously annoyed and amused. She cleared her throat lightly. "I suppose I should give you my number, so we can coordinate?"
"Oh! Right." He patted his coat pockets, then produced a slim card and a pen. "Here—I have a card." He scribbled something on the back and offered it to her. "My personal mobile. Feel free to call or text. Perhaps we can meet by the riverfront entrance around eight?"
Clara accepted the card. His fingers almost brushed hers again, and she was oddly aware of that slight near-touch as she pulled the card away. The cardstock was warm from his pocket. She noted his neat writing of a number beneath the printed name Gabriel Aldrin, Forensic Specialist. "Eight o''clock," she agreed. "I''ll be there."
For a moment, neither moved. They simply stood in the halo of the exam table''s lamp, facing each other. The air felt different — not quite as heavy with death, lighter somehow, as if some door had cracked open to the world outside. Gabriel''s gaze flickered over her face, perhaps searching again for any hint of regret or reluctance. He''d find none; Clara was already steeling herself to follow through. If nothing else, she was a woman of her word.
"Well." His voice was a touch husky. He inclined his head. "I should let you get back to it." His eyes darted toward Tom''s corpse — the body waited patiently under a white sheet. Clara wondered suddenly what Gabriel saw when he looked at her in this setting: a strange woman in a white coat, surrounded by the dead, comfortable in silence and loneliness. A part of her wanted to apologise for the morbid backdrop to their tentative invitation, but if it bothered him, he gave no sign beyond a mild wrinkle of his nose at the chemical smell.
"Yes," she replied, businesslike again. "These friends of mine won''t take care of themselves." She nodded to the corpse with a faint smirk.
Gabriel''s lip quirked. "You have an interesting definition of ''friends.''"
"They''re very quiet company," Clara deadpanned. "And they rarely disappoint."
He shook his head in mock despair. "Remind me to introduce you to some people who are, you know, actually breathing."
Her eyes glinted. "Present company included?"
He laughed then—a soft, startled laugh. Clara realised with a start it was the first time she''d heard him laugh freely, without reserve. It transformed his face in the most disarming way, carving a dimple in one cheek and lighting those green eyes. The sound tugged at something in her chest, something dangerously close to happiness. She allowed herself a small answering chuckle.
Gabriel stared at her as she laughed, as if committing the sight to memory. He looked a little astonished, truth be told. Perhaps he hadn''t expected humour from the woman who spends her days with cadavers. His gaze lingered on the curve of her smile until he seemed to catch himself. He coughed and took a half-step back. "Anyway. Until tomorrow, then."
"Until tomorrow," Clara echoed. She moved with him toward the door, a polite escort out. Just as he opened it, a thought struck her. "Oh, Gabriel?" she said, tasting the familiarity of his first name—she hadn''t realised she''d used it until it passed her lips.
He turned, hand on the doorframe. "Yes?"
Clara held up the card he''d given her between two fingers. "If this is a trick to get me away from my ''friends'' so you can ransack my office for more clues, I''ll be very disappointed."
He grinned, rolling his eyes in an exaggerated show of innocence. "Damn, you''ve foiled step two of my master plan."
She gave him a sardonic little salute. "Good day, Detective."
Gabriel''s smile softened into something almost affectionate. "Good day, Clara." He inclined his head and then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the corridor beyond. The door hissed shut, the click of it sealing her once more in solitude.
Clara remained still for a moment, staring at the closed door as if by will alone she could see through it. She realised she was holding her breath and let it out in a rush. On the worktable, the stainless steel instruments gleamed, reminding her that life — or rather, death — marched on and waited for no one''s idle daydreams. With a shake of her head, she turned back into the room.
The silence swelled around her, accompanied by the ever-present undertone of the ventilator and humming lights. She became conscious that her heart was fluttering in her chest like a trapped moth. Whether from the lingering adrenaline of the strange vision or the unlikely prospect of tomorrow night — perhaps both — she wasn''t sure. Maybe both had wound her up in different ways.
Her eyes fell upon the shrouded corpse of Tom, the man who had whispered to her. Slowly, she approached the table and peeled back the sheet just enough to see his face once more. It was peaceful now, as in that final hospital memory: calm, resigned. Clara felt a twist of pity and understanding. "Please... not yet," he had begged in death. And here she was, so often begging life to hold off, to leave her be.
"I''ll record everything, I promise," she whispered to the dead man, as if answering his plea. Her fingers hovered over his cooling hand in a gesture of empathy she would never dare show in front of others. "I don''t know what you want, or why me. But I''ll try to understand." Her voice sounded very small in the empty room. Of course, there was no reply. Tom''s face remained impassive, lips forever sealed. If his spirit lingered, it had given her all it could for now.
Clara gently drew the sheet back over his features. A feeling of inevitability settled on her shoulders, heavy as a funerary pall. What was happening to her.. However she tried to rationalise them away with words like hallucination and stress, the evidence was mounting in whispers and visions she could no longer completely deny. Death had touched her life more literally than most, and it seemed now it wasn''t content to let her simply paint the faces of its victims. It wanted to speak. Perhaps it had always spoken, and only now did she have ears to hear.
With a weary sigh, Clara picked up her pen once more and added a final line to her notebook entry: "Am i going insane? Remain skeptical, but open." The pencil''s tip pressed hard at the last word, almost breaking through the page. Skeptical but open — yes, that was as much as she could promise herself. She would not leap to claim she spoke with ghosts. But she would no longer pretend the ghosts weren''t there.
Snapping the notebook shut, she slid it into her desk drawer and locked it. The clang of metal was unnaturally loud, and it echoed back from the sterile walls. In the sudden stillness, Clara was struck by the stark contrast between this moment and what awaited her tomorrow. Here she stood enveloped in the cold scent of formaldehyde and quiet death, utterly alone — and tomorrow she would walk among a crowd of living, breathing people beneath a sky filled with lantern light. It felt almost like stepping through a veil into another world.
Her eyes strayed to the card in her hand one more time. Gabriel Aldrin. She brushed her thumb over the ink of his handwritten number. A ghost of a smile touched her lips. Perhaps it was fitting. Lanterns to guide her through the dark, and lies to shield her heart as she navigated the living once more. Clara slid the card safely into her pocket and reached to turn off the examination lamp. "Until tomorrow," she whispered, not even sure whether she meant it for Gabriel, for her mother''s memory, or for the quiet dead listening in the corners of the room. The only answer was the soft buzz of the lights and the delicate swirl of the chemical-scented air. Clara exhaled and closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself in that familiar perfume of formaldehyde. When she opened them, she felt calm. Determined.
Gathering her resolve like a cloak around her, Clara — daughter, mortician, reluctant confidante of the dead — began to clean up her station. The morgue remained as it ever was, indifferent and silent. But somewhere beyond these walls, a city prepared for a festival of light, and a man with olive-green eyes was waiting for her in a way no one had in a very long time. Clara allowed herself one last glance at Tom''s shrouded form. Thank you, she thought toward him — or toward whatever kindly force might be listening. Then she switched off the light, plunging the morgue into a muted half-dark. The scent of formaldehyde curled around her as she stood there, one hand on the door, poised between two worlds. Behind her lay the dead man who had whispered to her; ahead, the promise of lanterns and the necessary lies that kept her feet firmly planted among the living.
With a steadying breath, Clara stepped out, leaving only silence in her wake.