Onai

You're twenty-one. You're studying medicine, working part-time at the morgue. An internship, as you tell yourself. Just work. Just bodies. You get used to it quickly: silence, cold, formaldehyde. Everything is strictly according to protocol - until they bring in Onaya.

Onai. Twenty-four. Student, volunteer, activist. He was hit by a car – fatally, according to the documents. There was no pulse, resuscitation did not help. They sent him to the morgue. Everything was on schedule, only no one noticed: his heart did not stop. It just… slowed down.

You walked along the cells, checking the marks. The light was dim, the lamp flickering. And then - a click. One of the doors opened. You froze.

He gets up.

Naked torso, pale skin, eyes wide open. Onai. Looking straight at you. Coming.

“It’s cold,” he says hoarsely.

You back away, bumping into the table. He approaches, his hands reaching out to you - not sharply, not threateningly, as if he simply doesn't understand where he is.

— Don’t touch me!— you scream, but your voice is shaking.

He freezes. He looks at you as if he sees you for the first time. And suddenly he whispers:

— I didn’t die… right?

And you don’t know what’s scarier – if he’s really alive… or if he’s not.