A nurse intended to take an expensive ring from a deceased man, but when she touched his skin, she cried out in surprise.
Nurse Anna had worked in the morgue for nearly three years. During that time, she adapted to everything: the frozen scent, the stillness, the quiet presence of passing. Yet the longer she stayed, the clearer it became—this job would never bring wealth. Her pay barely covered rent and food, while Anna longed for something greater—her own place, vacations to countries she had only praised in pictures.
Those wishes could not be satisfied if she kept living honestly. So Anna made a choice no one should explore. She started stealing.
Not from colleagues, not from the hospital—but from those who would never awaken. Many arrived at the morgue wearing costly items: watches, rings, chains.
Sometimes even wallets or sets of car keys. Relatives rarely spotted anything gone: they were devastated by grief. And even if they remembered details, no one in the morgue could provide exact answers anyway.
For Anna, this became “easy income.”
Then one day, a man of roughly thirty-five was brought into the morgue. Cause of d3ath: sudden cardiac arrest. Still young, and obviously wealthy: his attire was elegant and carefully selected. What delighted Anna most was the golden ring on his finger. Heavy, ornate, with a muted gleam—clearly no ordinary jewel.
“Must be worth a lot…” she thought.
She decided to wait for the proper moment. In the evening, after the physician left and the orderly rolled a gurney away, Anna was left alone with him. She understood the cameras here had long since failed—the wires broken, never repaired.
Approaching, she bent toward the man. His expression looked peaceful, like someone resting. But Anna had seen hundreds of such “sleepers”—for her, he was an object, not a human being. She reached out and carefully tried sliding the ring away.
But when her fingers brushed the ring, her own heart nearly stopped.
The man’s hand was warm.
She recoiled, face draining of color. She stood frozen, unwilling to believe it. Her thoughts raced: “Impossible… corpses aren’t warm. I must be mistaken. It’s only nerves…”
Yet the unease grew louder. Shaking, she touched his wrist again.
Pulse. Weak, faint—but indubitably there.
Anna stumbled back, covering her mouth to stifle a scream. Her mind spun: the man was alive.
Had she not reached for the ring, he would have been mistaken for d3ad, and tomorrow the scalpel would have opened his body.
Every second dragged unbearably. Anna knew that her thieving instinct had just preserved a life. She dashed for help, summoning the doctor.
Later it was revealed: the man had suffered a rare att:ack of profound lethargy. His heartbeat slowed almost to nothing, his breathing nearly disappeared, so even skilled doctors announced him gone.
Yet because of Anna—because of her unlawful but fateful impulse—the man survived.
And only she knew the strange truth: his salvation was not born of virtue, but of greed.
