Chapter One: The Body That Spoke
That particular morning, the morgue possessed a startling stillness, an atmosphere so quiet it felt almost reverent. The persistent fluorescent buzz that frequently filled the air was notably absent, as was the nagging hum from the broken fan lazily spinning overhead. Instead, an eerie silence enveloped the room, wrapping it in a delicate layer of tranquility that seemed to breathe. Dr. Adrian Keller stood alone in the center of this stillness, his arms rigidly at his sides, attempting to rein in his racing heart. He loathed the sensation of an accelerated heartbeat; it was a sign, a whispered warning that something was likely to go terribly awry.
His gaze was drawn involuntarily to the stark steel table positioned in the middle of the room, where a white sheet concealed the body of a girl. The sheet was folded with a chilling precision that spoke of the finality of death. Though he had not yet dared to pull it back, it wasn't due to any queasiness. He had dealt with enough deceased bodies to be long accustomed to the lifeless faces, hollow eyes, and slackened jaws. No, this time, it was different, and something deep inside him stirred with an uncomfortable certainty. But what that "something" was remained elusive. Nonetheless, the sensation clung to him.
Reaching for the small recorder that sat on the countertop, Adrian felt a slight tremor in his hands as he pressed the red button, initiating his report. "Autopsy Report 3021-B. Subject is a female, approximately between sixteen and eighteen years old. The estimated time of death is roughly seventy-two hours before being discovered. She was located beneath the viaduct on Calgrove Street, with no identification found on the body." He lingered in the fragile silence that followed, his thumb poised over the stop button—but he made no move to end the recording. Instead, compelled by an unshakeable instinct, he stepped closer to the table.
With a gentle whisper, his latex gloves brushed against the edges of the sheet as he began to peel it back. Inch by painstaking inch, her face came into view. It was a visage both pale and freckled, marked by a faint abrasion along her cheekbone that suggested something rough, perhaps malicious, had grazed her delicate skin. He didn't recognize her—a fact that should have offered him a sense of relief, yet instead weighed heavily on his heart. The moment his gaze met hers, his stomach twisted with sudden nausea, an intense wave of heat blossoming in his chest and radiating outwards into his ribs, arms, and neck. His vision momentarily swam before him.
Pain enveloped him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting against the tumult of emotions surging through him. Not yours, Adrian. It isn't yours. Yet, the deep ache coursing through him felt undeniably real, as if he had physically endured some cruel blow himself. It was always this way—an intrusive mirror-touch synesthesia that he had battled for years. Therapy sessions, medication, even breathing exercises had proven fruitless in halting the transference of another's pain into his own body. It felt as if his nerves had been hijacked, commandeered by someone else's suffering, leaving him as merely a vessel destined to echo the agony of the deceased. His fingers hovered hesitantly over her chest, noting the way her sternum had caved inward slightly. Bruising marred her ribcage, jagged and inconsistent, a grotesque testament to violence.
He winced involuntarily.
That was blunt force trauma. Internal bleeding. He suspected at least three cracked ribs from just his brief observation, and he hadn't even touched her yet.
In the stillness of the room, the ancient refrigerator in the morgue abruptly groaned back to life, the sound breaking through his haze, just enough to prompt him to reach for the scalpel resting nearby.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he began the first incision, his movements meticulous. But the instant the blade breached her skin, an acute pressure exploded along his abdomen, forcing him to double over momentarily. A low groan escaped him through gritted teeth as he clutched the edge of the table for support, feeling as though his legs were turning to molten wax beneath him. "Please, do not do this to me today," he murmured to himself, the words barely audible.
He knew there was no turning back now. If he hesitated, if he stopped at all, it would become unbearable to resume. Drawing in a shaky breath, he pressed on with the incision, striving to maintain a steady and controlled rhythm. Yet, each slice brought with it violent reactions throughout his body, creating echoes of wounds, imaginary cuts blossoming into existence under his skin. Blood slowly pooled at the site of the Y-shaped cut, and he fought the urge to swallow hard against the rising lump in his throat. Amidst the physical pain, he was suddenly overtaken by another sensation—an emotional resonance that was anything but physical. A flood of inexplicable fear crashed over him, a reminder that this girl had faced terror. It was palpable, not just in her last moments, but something that had haunted her for perhaps days or even weeks. He could almost feel the weight of exhaustion constricting around her chest as if it were a second skin, the pervasive dread clinging to her like a shroud of mist. Lately, these emotional echoes seemed to manifest with increased frequency. His therapist had suggested this was likely rooted in psychological projection, a resurfacing of his own buried trauma. But Adrian prided himself on being able to differentiate between his feelings and those of others. Or at least, he had thought so.
Taking a step back from the table, he pressed his palm against his own chest, feeling his heartbeat thudding insistently beneath his hand. Beads of sweat pooled at his lower back, trickling down his spine. Then, from the periphery of his vision, something caught his attention. And he saw it.
A shape.
No, he corrected himself, a pattern.
With a careful movement, he leaned closer, methodically wiping away the blood that had congealed with a sterile cloth. The faint marking of bruises beneath the rib cage formed a distinct shape that left no room for doubt about its intentionality. It was not a random blemish—it was deliberate, an unmistakable curved line. And then there was a second one, following suit. Together, they created a symbol. Adrian felt a shiver run down his spine as he realized he had encountered that mark before.
His breath caught in his throat.
No, it couldn't be.
It was beyond comprehension.
Yet he recognized that shape intimately—not from reading some forensic guide or textbook, but from deep within his own memory. It had been etched into the skin of a boy—a lonely boy who had roamed the cold, lifeless halls of an orphanage two decades prior. He instinctively took a step back, feeling a rush of adrenaline as his heartbeat thundered in his ears. The tremors gripped his knees with an unrelenting force.
As if taunting him, the fluorescent lights above flickered ominously, amplifying the weight of the tension in the air. Adrian didn't realize just how long he had been fixated on the lifeless figure before him until the recorder he had forgotten about emitted a beep, signaling that it had reached its maximum auto-save limit. Moving numbly, he turned to the small device and clicked it off. His gloved fingertips were stained crimson, a grim reminder that he hadn't been working for more than a few minutes.
He felt an overwhelming need for fresh air.
Just as he turned to retrieve his jacket from the nearby chair, something small caught the corner of his eye. A glimmer—a small tag, dangling loosely from the girl's left ankle. It had twisted unexpectedly under the edge of the sheet, obscured from his initial scan. He realized with a jolt that he hadn't even filled it out yet, thinking it should be crisp and blank.
But to his mounting horror, it was not.
Leaning closer, he squinted in concentration. There, on the underside of the tag, one word was scrawled in a smudged, jagged handwriting.
"Hello."
Adrian felt his stomach plummet to the floor. His heart raced as he surveyed the empty room, half-expecting to see someone lurking in the shadows, watching him with sinister intent. But the morgue was eerily silent, devoid of life. His assistant, Lena, was off today, and he was alone. No interns, no detectives—no one to share in this chilling moment. With trembling fingers, Adrian picked up the tag, the faded ink unmistakably clear against the stark white paper.
"Hello."
His mouth turned dry, a parched sensation washing over him. He read the word again, over and over, as a torrent of thoughts clashed violently in his mind. Was it some sort of sick joke? An oversight? A forgotten note slipped by someone during transport? Whatever it was, the word bore an intimacy that was far too personal. So precise.
This wasn't meant for the police.
No, it was clearly meant for him.
He found himself moving backwards slowly, as if the body on the table might suddenly sit up and speak to him. He pressed his shoulders against the cool, sterile tile of the morgue wall, unwilling to look away from the girl's serene face. Strangely, she looked at peace now, a stark contrast to the chaos within him. That calmness unnerved him more than the thought of a tortured expression would have.
A sudden, sharp knock broke the silence.
Three measured beats echoed from the far side of the morgue door, ringing out in the stillness.
Adrian froze.
Another knock, three precise taps. Then silence descended once more. Something instinctual compelled his legs to move. He crept slowly toward the door, every tiny hair on his body standing erect with tension. His fingers brushed against the handle, and at that moment, he hesitated. Typically, the hallway beyond was well-lit, even in the depths of night.
With a trembling hand, he cracked the door to peek outside.
Darkness greeted him.
No footsteps, no sign of life, only an enveloping emptiness.
And then he heard it.
A voice whispered—a wisp of sound barely louder than a breath—coming from just behind him, even though he knew the room was completely devoid of any presence.
"I know you remember."
Adrian spun around, adrenaline surging through him.
Nothing.
Yet the chill in the air had deepened, a bitter cold wrapping around him. His heart raced wildly in his throat, and his breath came in quick, shallow gasps. His body felt as though it was recoiling instinctively, like a frightened animal sensing a predator nearby. His gaze flicked back to the girl, only to notice that the tag on her foot had slipped from its resting place and had fallen to the floor.
It still bore that same haunting word.
Hello.
He bent down and snatched it up, turning it over in his palm. There, visible now in lighter ink, another word emerged as if it had been waiting for the right moment to reveal itself—like the reaction of invisible ink coming to life in the presence of air.
"Again."
Hello again.
Adrian staggered back in disbelief, the tag slipping through his fingers, falling once more to the floor. He didn't need to see a name to understand exactly who she was.
Because she was no longer just a lifeless body lying on his examination table.
She was a message.
And whoever had sent it… knew him all too well.