A faint, unexpected rustle whispered from beneath the sheet. The morgue nurse paused, her breath snagging on the moment, then lifted the fabric’s edge — and the sight beneath carved a cold line down her spine 😱😲
That night, she was the only one on duty in the morgue. Routine kept her steady: logging arrivals, checking identification tags, filling in the register. Around two in the morning, paramedics delivered a middle-aged man with no documents — found unconscious in an apartment, declared in cardiac arrest on the way. Straight to the morgue he went.
She pulled the stretcher from its slot, the white sheet smooth and unbroken, and began entering his details. The familiar stillness of the morgue usually wrapped around her like a heavy blanket, but tonight the silence felt weighted… observant. As though someone stood just behind her shoulder, breathing lightly against her neck.
Each time she turned, the hallway stared back empty.
Then it came again — the sound. Not metal shifting, not fabric settling, but something softer… a stifled breath trying to escape. Rationality reminded her that post-mortem reflexes happen all the time. Small spasms. Subtle movements. Nothing paranormal, nothing new.
Still, protocol demanded she check for any chance — however remote — of signs of life. It was rare, but she’d seen mistakes before. Her body moved on training while her mind hovered in uneasy disbelief.
She pulled the stretcher closer, leaned in, and carefully lifted the sheet.
What she saw nearly knocked the strength from her legs 😨😲
It was her husband.
The man who had told her he was in another city. The man who had ended their late-night video call saying he was exhausted and going to sleep after a long workday. Hours earlier, he had been warm and alive on her screen.
And yet here he was — lifeless, cold, unmistakably him.
But the worst part wasn’t his death.
The worst part was realizing he wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near this city at all.
The truth surfaced later, harsh and unsparing. He had never been on a business trip. His workplace confirmed he had taken a week off. He had spent that entire week with his mistress — and he died in her apartment.
With no ID on him, he had arrived at the morgue as an “unidentified man,” his documents still being processed.
And fate — or something crueler — had delivered him straight onto his own wife’s shift.
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