The morgue was freezing—colder than it had ever been. He rushed to Leila’s tray, but nature had begun its inevitable work. The porcelain skin was darkening; the sweet scent of perfume was losing its war against the creeping bitterness of decay.
By Abdel Latif Moubarak | Egypt
Asim did not hate the sun; he simply found it intrusive. To him, the world of the living was a cacophony of lies, demands, and exhausting emotions. He preferred the subterranean kingdom of the “Old Palace Hospital” morgue, where the flickering neon lights hummed a steady, predictable tune.
In the basement, there was no judgment. The residents of the cold steel lockers were the perfect companions: they were excellent listeners, and they never departed unexpectedly—at least, not until the burial permits arrived. His colleagues called him “The Cadaver’s Paramour” behind his back, mocking the way he ate his lunch leaning against the refrigeration units. Asim didn’t mind. He believed that every body was a book with a missing final chapter, and he was the only one with the patience to read it in the pallor of their skin.
On a rain-slicked Tuesday in January, the heavy double doors swung open to admit a new guest. Her name was Leila. Unlike the usual arrivals—mangled by accidents or wasted by disease—Leila looked as though she had simply paused mid-breath. She was in her early twenties, her skin the color of cream, her hair a river of obsidian.
“Suicide,” the paramedic muttered, handing Asim the paperwork. “Sedatives. A damn shame for someone that beautiful.”
When the doors clicked shut and the silence returned, Asim did not slide her into Tray 402. Instead, he pulled up his wooden stool. He spent the night brushing her hair with his fingers, whispering to her about the cruelty of the world she had fled.
Days bled into a singular, frozen timeline. Asim began staying long after his shift ended. He spent his meager salary on expensive French perfumes, misting the air around Leila so she wouldn’t have to smell the antiseptic reality of the morgue. He brought her flowers—not the fresh ones from the florist, but the wilted lilies he gathered from the hospital gardens.
“The living like things that grow,” he would murmur to her cold ear. “But we understand the beauty of things that have finished their struggle.”
In his deepening psychosis, Asim began to see movement where there was none. He imagined a slight curl in her lips when he entered the room, a silent greeting from a woman who finally understood his loneliness.
By the second week, the atmosphere in the morgue shifted. Asim felt a growing tension emanating from the other lockers. The old man who died of a stroke, the child from the hit-and-run, the woman murdered by her husband—they all seemed to vibrate with a cold, hollow jealousy.
The silence was no longer peaceful; it was judgmental. He felt hundreds of sightless eyes watching him through the steel doors, mocking his devotion to the “new girl.” The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to stretch toward Leila, as if trying to pull her away from his obsessive care.
The illusion shattered when the Chief Pathologist entered for an unannounced late-night autopsy. He found Asim draped over the exam table, fastening a cheap pearl necklace around Leila’s neck while humming a lullaby.
“Asim! What in God’s name are you doing?” the doctor shrieked.
Asim was terminated on the spot and escorted out by security. But a lover’s bond is not severed by an HR notice. That night, driven by a frantic need to “save” her from the autopsy scalpel, Asim crept back through the small basement window.
The morgue was freezing—colder than it had ever been. He rushed to Leila’s tray, but nature had begun its inevitable work. The porcelain skin was darkening; the sweet scent of perfume was losing its war against the creeping bitterness of decay.
“I won’t let them take you,” Asim sobbed, pulling her stiff body toward him.
As he tried to lift her, a sudden, piercing chill seized his chest. It wasn’t the cold of the room, but a frost emanating from within his own heart. He collapsed onto the metal table, his body intertwining with hers.
In his final moments, he felt a hand—icy and firm—clasp his own. He looked up into Leila’s eyes. They were open now, two clouded orbs of glass. It wasn’t a look of love, but a look of recruitment. The dead do not love; they only hunger for company.
The morning shift found them both. Asim lay perfectly still next to Leila, a serene, terrifying smile fixed upon his blue lips. The medical report cited a sudden cardiac arrest, likely brought on by stress and exhaustion.
Today, the “Old Palace” morgue has a new reputation. The new attendants refuse to work the night shift alone. They claim that if you stand very still near Tray 402, you can hear the faint sound of a man whispering poetry, and the distinct, metallic slide of a locker opening from the inside.
The Cadaver’s Paramour had finally secured his permanent position.
Read: Ashes of the Spotlight
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The author was born in Suez and writes poetry using classical Arabic and Egyptian vernacular. He received a Bachelor of Law from Ain Shams University. He was one of the most important poets of the 1980s and his poems were published in several literary magazines in Egypt and the Arab world, including the Arab magazine, Kuwait magazine, News Literature, Republic newspaper, Al-Ahram, the new publishing culture (magazine).[1] Received the Excellence and Creativity Shield from the Arab Media Union in 2014 and Won the shield of excellence and creativity from the East Academy 2021.He won the Sergio Camellini International Award in Italy in 2025. He won first place in the “Divinamente Donna” competition in Italy 2026.
