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 becomes agitated when he realizes what really happened.
Doctor… doctor, come look at this,” Camilo said, his voice breaking, taking two steps back as if the stretcher had just pushed him away.
Doctor Esteban Fonseca looked up from the instrument table. He had been working in the central morgue of Puebla for over fifteen years, and almost nothing managed to disturb his pulse. Almost nothing. But tonight, the body resting on the frozen steel was not just any body.
It was a nun.
The young woman was still wearing her black habit, neatly arranged over her slender frame. Her face was serene, almost luminous, as if she weren’t dead but merely asleep after a long day of prayer. She had been brought from a convent on the outskirts of the city with orders to perform an autopsy because no one had been able to explain with certainty why she had died so suddenly.
“What’s wrong?” Fonseca asked, stepping closer.
Camilo swallowed hard.
“There’s an opening in the fabric… on her back. And I think she has a tattoo.”
Fonseca frowned.
“It wouldn’t be that strange. Not all of them enter the convent as children. Some had lives before their vows.”
But even he didn’t sound convinced.
As soon as he approached, he saw the dark mark peeking through a tear in the habit. He exchanged a brief look with Camilo, and without another word, both carefully turned the body over. Fonseca offered a small prayer out of reflex, as he always did when a corpse commanded more respect than habit. Then, he asked for scissors and began to cut the fabric.
It only took a few seconds for his breath to freeze.
It wasn’t a tattoo.
It was a message.
An inscription written directly onto the girl’s skin, in trembling but perfectly legible handwriting:
Do not perform the autopsy. Wait two hours. What you need is in the pocket of my habit.
Camilo immediately crossed himself.
“No… it can’t be.”
Fonseca carefully ran his finger over the letters, as if still doubting his own eyes.
“Check the pocket,” he ordered in a low voice.
The young man reached into one side of the habit. At first, he found nothing. In the second pocket, however, his fingers brushed against a small, hard object. He pulled it out slowly.
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