Anna forced herself to breathe, clutching desperately at reason. Perhaps it had only been a reflex, a final spasm of muscles after death. Science could explain it—that had to be it. The dead did not rise, and they certainly did not defend their treasures.
Yet, no matter how many times she repeated the thought, unease gnawed at her. The shimmer of the ring no longer tempted her as it once had. Instead, it weighed heavy with guilt, as though her own conscience had been laid bare by that single twitch.
She realized then that she had crossed a line too dangerous to tread. The morgue was not her hunting ground, not a vault to plunder. It was a resting place, a sacred space for farewells, not theft.
With shaking hands, Anna stepped back, whispering an apology—more to herself than the man on the table. The air seemed to ease as she turned toward the door, a fragile sense of release settling over her.
She would abandon this path. No more stolen trinkets, no more secret ventures into death’s domain. Her dreams of freedom and luxury would take longer now, but they would be built on honesty, not on shadows and shame.
As she left the morgue behind, Anna knew this moment would never fade. The twitch of a dead man’s hand had carved a lesson into her soul: some boundaries are never meant to be crossed, and respect for the departed was one of them.
