A dark stain, small but visible. The forensic doctor examined Camilo. They exchanged a brief look of confirmation. It was enough.
—Help me turn her over— Foseca asked. With care and respect, the two doctors placed the nun’s body face down on the icy stretcher.
Before starting, Foseca closed his eyes, took a deep breath and murmured a prayer. He asked God for forgiveness, because although it was his job, touching something sacred in that way caused him oppression in his chest.
—Pass me some scissors—he asked. Camilo handed him the instrument and Foseca began to carefully cut the back of the habit, but it only took a few centimeters for his eyes to open wide.
What he saw there was not a simple tattoo, but an inscription, something written. “Is there any truth to this?” Foseca murmured, between surprise and curiosity. “I asked him: ‘Is there something there, something written?’ Camilo exclaimed, getting even closer.”
Driven by the desire to understand, Foseca accelerated his movements, leaving the nun’s back completely exposed.
And then, as if time had stopped, the two doctors remained motionless. Their eyes remained wide open, their faces pale, without words.
Neither of them dared to blink. Silence filled the room as if the morgue itself had suffocated them. Is that what I’m reading, doctor?
“I’m not imagining this, am I?” Camilo asked, his voice breaking with fear. Foseca, still holding the scissors in his trembling hands, answered without taking his eyes off the description.
If you’re imagining it, so am I. As if I needed to make sure of what I was seeing, as if my eyes weren’t enough.
