THE MAN WHO WOULDN'T DIE

Chapter 11:

The morgue was silent, save for the distant creak of the old wooden doors and the flickering of oil lamps casting long, eerie shadows on the stone walls. The scent of antiseptic barely masked the underlying stench of death, a pungent reminder of the countless souls that had passed through. The air was thick with the weight of sorrow, the silence so profound it felt as though the walls themselves held their breath, listening to the echoes of the departed.

Authorities had worked tirelessly through the night, retrieving the bodies from Ashford Bay after the bandit massacre. It had been a gruesome task, identifying the dead, arranging for burials, and documenting the destruction left in the wake of the ruthless attack. The weight of so much loss hung thick in the air, pressing down on everyone who had witnessed the aftermaths, It was a indeed a very emotional and crazy period for all.

The mortician, a seasoned man named Harold Finch, moved methodically among the rows of corpses. He had seen death in all its forms, war, sickness, starvation, but there was something especially brutal about the bodies that had arrived from Ashford Bay. Many were disfigured beyond recognition, burned, slashed, or riddled with wounds. The devastation was unlike anything he had witnessed before, and the weight of it pressed heavily upon his shoulders.

Harold exhaled slowly, rubbing his weary eyes as he reached the last body on the table. The man before him was covered in dirt and dried blood, his clothes torn, his chest marked by a deep, gaping wound. His face was partially hidden beneath the grime, but there was something oddly familiar about him.

Something about his features, even beneath the filth and injuries, tugged at Harold's memory. Has he seen this man before? Had he been someone important in the town before its fall? There was a familiarity that gnawed at the edges of his mind, a distant recognition just out of reach. The thought nagged at him, an uneasy feeling settling in his chest. But he pushed it aside. It didn't matter now, whoever this man had been before, he was just another lost soul among the ruins of Ashford Bay. Or was he?

As Harold reached for his ledger, preparing to record another nameless victim, movement caught his eye. A flicker of motion in the dim candlelight sent a chill down his spine. His hand hovered above the page, heart pounding as he strained to see through the shadows.

A twitch. A fleeting, almost imperceptible movement.

A slight, almost imperceptible rise and fall of the man's chest.

Harold froze. His heart slammed against his ribs as he leaned closer.

No. It wasn't possible.

With shaking hands, he pressed his fingers against the man's throat.

A pulse. Weak, but steady.

Harold stumbled back, his breath coming in sharp gasps. The man was alive.

"Help! Someone get in here!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the cold halls.

Within moments, two attendants rushed in, their eyes widening at the sight of Harold hovering over what should have been a corpse.

"He's breathing," Harold said, still struggling to believe it himself. "We need to get him out of here, now."

They wasted no time. Carefully, they lifted the barely conscious man from the cold slab and carried him to the infirmary, laying him on a clean cot. A physician was summoned immediately, and soon, a flurry of activity surrounded the survivor. Bandages, hot water, and medicines were brought forth as the staff worked tirelessly to stabilize him.

The physician, a middle-aged man with graying hair and a steady hand, examined the survivor with a furrowed brow. "This man should be dead," he muttered under his breath, pressing his fingers against the wound on the man's chest. "It's deep, but something kept him from bleeding out completely."

Harold watched from the doorway, a mixture of awe and curiosity burning within him. He had spent decades in this profession, long enough to know that the dead did not wake. And yet, here was a man who had been left among the deceased, only to defy the inevitable. It was as if some unseen force had tethered him to life, refusing to let him slip away. The weight of that realization sent a chill through Harold, was it luck, fate, or something far more mysterious at play?

"Will he make it?" Harold asked quietly.

The physician hesitated before nodding. "If he survives the night, he has a chance."

The weight of those words settled in the room like a heavy fog. The attendants continued their work, replacing bloodied bandages and ensuring the man was comfortable. His breathing remained shallow but steady. He lingered in the fragile space between life and death, as though his body had not yet decided which side to choose.

Harold turned to one of the attendants. "See to it that he gets the best care. I want updates on his condition every hour."

The young man nodded and hurried off, leaving Harold alone with his thoughts.

Who was this man?

How had he survived when so many others had perished?

More importantly, what would he remember when he woke?

If he woke at all.

Harold stepped closer to the cot, his gaze fixed on the stranger's face. Even in his unconscious state, there was something strong, unyielding about him. The fight to stay alive burned somewhere deep within his being, as if sheer willpower had defied death itself. His breathing was shallow but steady, his fingers twitching ever so slightly, as though grasping for something just beyond reach. Whoever he was, fate had clearly refused to let him go.

If the man pulled through, he would have a story to tell. A story of survival, of fate refusing to let him go.

And most importantly, when he woke, would he remember who he was?

Or was he a ghost of the past, returned to life with no memory of the horrors he had endured?

For now, Harold could only wait.