I'm a forensic pathologist. For twelve years, I've believed in only one thing: physical evidence. Things that lie in evidence bags, things that can be seen under a microscope. Fingerprints, fibers, the direction of a wound, residue in tissue samples. These things don't lie or forget, and they don't show favoritism because of personal ties. They're the only things in this line of work I can truly hold on to.
The first thing my mentor taught me was this: traces are the last words the dead leave for the living.
I don't believe in legends, the occult, or any kind of speculation that can't be explained. But that night in the autopsy room, as I stared at the hem of that garment, I felt for the first time that something was passing through every defense I'd built over the years. It was so faint, almost nonexistent, yet I could feel it sinking deeper.
Later, the eighth body appeared. In a place no one would think to check, I found a hair. So short it was almost invisible, hidden deep inside the body's nasal cavity. It was the only trace in the entire case that hadn't been removed. As I sent it for testing, a voice inside me kept pulling me back: You said you only believed in physical evidence, so why are you afraid to see the results?
I don't know what I'm afraid of. Maybe I'm afraid that if the evidence points down a road I don't dare take, I won't know what to do.
I'm still waiting for those results. And I'm still wondering: if one day I have to walk that road all the way to the end, will I still be able to turn back?
