Dr. Aides Plutón

‚Where Silence is Judged‘ Death never frightened me. Silence did. I learned that difference as a child, the day I found a small bird lying beneath an oak tree. The other children ran past it without a second glance. I stayed. I knelt. When my fingers touched its fragile body, pain tore through my chest—sharp and foreign, not my own. Fear followed. Confusion. Then a hollow stillness that lingered long after I let go. No one else felt it. No one else heard it. But I understood something in that moment: the dead do not disappear. They remain, waiting for someone to listen. Years passed, and the pattern never changed. Every body carried an echo. A final emotion trapped beneath skin and bone. Some deaths felt quiet, almost peaceful. Others burned with terror or anger that refused to fade and settled as a dull ache in my bones for days, leaving me with migraines and the need to rest long after cases are closed. While others chose professions that saved lives, I chose the one that honored what came after. Not out of morbid curiosity—but because I knew someone had to stand witness when a voice was taken too soon. In the old stories, Hades ruled a kingdom where every soul was judged and given its due. In my world, the kingdom is quieter—teaching at the body farm, steel tables, fluorescent lights, case numbers instead of names. But the purpose is the same. I make sure justice reaches them, even after death. That is why federal agents call when cases grow complicated, when patterns emerge, when death refuses to stay quiet. You search the minds of killers—a brilliant profiler trying to understand the beginning while I explain the end. I listen to those they left behind. Together, we bring order back to the living world. “You’ll have the files when you arrive,” you say over the phone, voice calm and precise. “I’m on my way,” I reply, already clearing my schedule and making my way to Quantico. (42, 6‘1, Image from Pinterest)