I saw why people died and how they died. I saw gunshot wounds and

Host: The morgue was quiet except for the low hum of a refrigeration unit and the faint buzz of a single fluorescent light. Its white glare painted everything in a sterile pallor — the tables, the steel instruments, the faces that once held names. Cold air clung to every surface, carrying the faint metallic scent of formalin and memory.

Jack stood by one of the tables, his hands in the pockets of a faded lab coat, his eyes steady, almost clinical. Across from him, Jeeny clutched her notebook, her expression torn between fascination and unease.

It was past midnight, the city beyond the morgue alive with neon and noise, yet here — there was only stillness and the truth of the body.

Jeeny: “You really come here every weekend?”

Jack: (nodding) “I used to. Back when I was training. It was... a good learning experience, as Michael Baden said. You learn more about life by studying death than in any lecture hall.”

Host: His voice carried a strange calm, the kind that comes only from one who has seen too much. The light above flickered, then steadied, like a slow heartbeat returning to rhythm.

Jeeny: “It sounds so... detached. You say it like it’s just another task. But these were people, Jack. They had stories, families, dreams.”

Jack: “And now they’re data. Evidence. You think sentiment helps anyone? When you look at a body, you learn to see patterns — causes, mechanics, not tragedy. Baden understood that. He wasn’t looking for beauty, Jeeny. He was looking for truth.”

Jeeny: “Truth without compassion becomes cruelty.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like a soft echo in the empty room. The sound of dripping water from a sink punctuated the silence.

Jack: “Compassion doesn’t solve a case. It doesn’t tell you why a man bled out, or why a woman’s heart stopped at forty. Truth does. The body never lies.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Maybe. But it doesn’t tell you who they were when they were alive. It can’t show you the color of their laughter, or the way they held someone’s hand when they were scared.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered — a small crack in his composure. He turned slightly, staring at the stainless table, the faint outline beneath the sheet.

Jack: “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t see it every time I pull back the sheet? The problem is, Jeeny, if you carry every face with you, you won’t last. You learn to build distance. It’s the only way to stay sane.”

Jeeny: “Distance isn’t the same as understanding.”

Jack: “It’s survival.”

Host: The overhead light buzzed again, its flicker casting brief shadows across Jeeny’s face. She took a step closer, her voice soft but unwavering.

Jeeny: “Do you remember that child we saw last week? The one who drowned?”

Jack: (his jaw tightening) “Yes.”

Jeeny: “You said — ‘It’s just another case.’ But it wasn’t. That was someone’s son. Someone’s only world. You can’t call that ‘learning,’ Jack. That’s... witnessing the collapse of meaning.”

Jack: (sharply) “And yet, from that collapse, we learn how to save the next one. Don’t twist this into sentimentality. Baden didn’t go into the morgue to mourn; he went to understand why the living die. That’s how medicine moves forward — through dissection, not despair.”

Host: The air between them grew heavy. Even the machines seemed to hum quieter, as if listening.

Jeeny: “But tell me, Jack — what’s the cost of that kind of knowing? What happens when you’ve seen so much death that life becomes another specimen?”

Jack: (pausing) “You stop fearing it.”

Jeeny: “No. You stop feeling it.”

Host: The silence stretched, the kind that carries truth sharper than a scalpel. Jack’s hands twitched slightly before he clenched them back into his pockets.

Jack: “You want to talk about feeling? Feeling doesn’t bring the dead back. It doesn’t fix the liver that failed, or the bullet that tore through the chest. What it does is slow you down — and in this room, hesitation kills.”

Jeeny: “And outside this room? When the lights are off and there’s no case left to solve — does it keep you company then? Or does it just leave you empty?”

Host: Her words hit him harder than any accusation. For the first time, Jack looked away, his gaze drawn to the frosted glass door, where the faint reflection of his face seemed like someone else’s.

Jack: “You think I don’t ask myself that? Every damn day, Jeeny. You start out wanting to help people — to save them — and somewhere along the way, you just end up counting the ways they die.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the real autopsy — not on the dead, but on ourselves. To see what’s been lost inside.”

Host: Her voice softened, carrying both sorrow and grace. She walked slowly toward one of the tables, running her hand along the cold steel.

Jeeny: “Michael Baden said he saw why people died. But I think what he really saw was why people lived — and how fragile that reason was. Maybe that’s why he kept coming back. Not for the death — but for the lesson hidden inside it.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Maybe. Or maybe he just learned to stop flinching.”

Jeeny: “No one truly stops flinching, Jack. They just learn to hide the shudder.”

Host: The light dimmed for a moment as if the room itself exhaled. Jack looked down at the table, his expression softening, the edge in his voice fading.

Jack: “You know… there was this old man once. Died alone. No family, no one came to claim him. I thought I wouldn’t care. But when I zipped up the bag, I found this little photograph tucked in his shirt — a picture of him and his dog. That hit me harder than any cause of death ever did. It wasn’t the body that broke me. It was the reminder that he lived.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly, tears in her voice) “That’s it, Jack. That’s what I mean. The learning isn’t just in how they died — it’s in remembering that they were once alive.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, his eyes lowering, the mask of detachment finally cracking into something human, raw.

Jack: “You’re right. Maybe we don’t learn from the dead. Maybe we learn from what death leaves behind — the silence, the space, the reminder to breathe.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Baden meant. He saw death, yes — but he also saw the responsibility of the living.”

Host: Outside, dawn began to creep through the frosted windows, painting the steel with a faint golden hue. The morgue no longer looked cold; it looked almost peaceful, like a place between endings and beginnings.

Jack pulled off his gloves and placed them neatly on the table, his hands trembling just slightly.

Jack: “You know something, Jeeny? Maybe I’ll take the weekend off this time.”

Jeeny: (smiling through her breath) “Good. Let the dead rest. The living need you more.”

Host: The first sunlight touched their faces, dissolving the shadows that had lingered through the night. The machines hummed softly in the background, steady, eternal — like the rhythm of life itself.

In that quiet, something shifted — a fragile reconciliation between knowledge and empathy, between the search for causes and the acceptance of mystery.

For the first time, Jack’s eyes held warmth. Not the warmth of denial, but of understanding — that even in a room full of endings, there was still room to begin again.

The light grew brighter, spilling across the steel, the walls, their faces — and for a moment, the morgue felt less like a place of death, and more like a sanctuary of truth.