They brought a dead nun to the morgue, but upon cutting her habit, a phrase appeared: “Do not perform the autopsy.” What they found next did not seem like a miracle, but a nightmare capable of destroying an entire convent.

But, but, what is this? Is it a tattoo? What is that on your body, Dr. Foseca?, Camilo asked, taking two hurried steps backwards, as if something had pushed him.

His eyes were fixed on the motionless body on the metal stretcher, and the tone of his voice trembled with uncertainty.

On the other side of the cold room, surrounded by white tiles and surgical instruments, Dr. Foseca, the most experienced surgeon in the place, who had just opened a closet in search of scalpels and knives, turned around with a frown.

What do you mean by “up tattoo”? What did you see, Dr. Camilo?

He asked clearly, intrigued, as he approached with slow steps. Lying on the stainless steel stretcher was something that was not seen every day in that morgue: the body of a nun.

He was still wearing the black habit, which suited his young and delicate body very well.

Her face, pale and angelic, seemed more like that of someone who was sleeping soundly than that of someone alive, but she was dead and there was no clear explanation for her death.

Camilo, the better of the two foremen, remained silent for several seconds.

He waited for his companion to approach, searching for the right words to describe what he had just witnessed.

—Did you see his tattoo, Camilo? Is that it? —repeated the chief doctor, trying to understand what was worrying his colleague so much.

—I was watching her and noticed an opening in her habit. It seems she has a tattoo on her back. I’m not sure—he replied, visibly disturbed.

Foseca, with the serenity of someone who has been in that position for many years, crossed his arms and reflected: “Is it just your impression or perhaps it’s a tattoo?” he said, making a brief pause before concluding.

Not everyone follows the path of faith from a young age. Sometimes, one lives immersed in the world, marked by it, and only later dedicates oneself to religious life. It could be a memory from the past. Nothing strange.

Amilo took a deep breath, looked at his colleague and asked him something that perhaps he had been keeping to himself since the beginning of that tour.

And all these years here, did you ever do an autopsy or work in the morgue? Foseca, who had already been working in that morgue for more than a decade, raised his eyebrows. To be honest, I did dream about it.

 I was surprised that the delegate sent the body here. You know, when an autopsy is performed it’s because there’s suspicion of a crime, and murder is a cover-up. That seemed almost absurd to me.

Surrealist or not, said Camilo, in a more serious tone. We faced a crowd and confessed that this thing intrigued me.