Who Is Knocking?

The flickering gaslight cast long shadows across the autopsy table, illuminating the stark reality of my work. Tonight, it was a young woman, barely twenty, her life extinguished too soon in a single-car accident. Her skin, still warm, held a tragic stillness, a stark contrast to the vibrant life I knew existed just hours ago. I had seen her smile, heard her laughter, in the halls of the middle school where I worked as principal. She was a bright light, a star student with dreams as vast as the mountain sky above our town.

My hands, usually steady as I guided students through algebra problems, trembled slightly as I examined her injuries. The sterile air of the coroners office couldnt mask the poignant scent of loss, a bittersweet perfume of what could have been. The transition from educator to coroner was seamless yet jarring, a constant shift between the promise of youth and the finality of death. The weight of this duality settled heavily on my shoulders, a familiar ache I carried with me from one role to the next.