The place seemed frozen in time. A wide, dry field, with disturbed earth forming dark mounds that contrasted sharply with the pale midday sky. There, lined up one after another, lay the coffins. Many. Too many. All the same, silent, closed, as if they held secrets no one dared speak aloud. The image, stark and impossible to ignore, traveled the world accompanied by a blood-curdling phrase: “Global alert for those vaccinated… ”

The people dressed in white and blue protective suits walked slowly, almost dragging their feet. They didn’t speak. They didn’t look each other in the eye. Each step was a burden, not physical, but emotional. The sound of the wind through the grasslands was the only thing that broke the silence, a constant murmur that seemed to repeat the same question: When did everything change?

In the distance, a truck waited with its back open. Inside, more coffins. The scene was anything but improvised. Everything was organized, measured, as if tragedy had become routine. And that was the most terrifying thing. Not the number of coffins, but the nonchalance with which they moved around them.

A figure in a pink protective suit stood out among the crowd. Amidst the white and blue, that color seemed like a stifled scream. The woman remained motionless, her hands tense in front of her body. Her shoulders hunched slightly, as if trying to shield herself from something invisible. Perhaps from the memory of someone now resting in one of those coffins. Perhaps from the weight of an unanswered question.

The phrase kept repeating itself on phone screens, in headlines, in whispered conversations: Global alert for the vaccinated… For some, it was fear. For others, confusion. For many, anger. Because it wasn’t just about medicine or past decisions, but about trust. About believing that the right thing was being done. About thinking that the sacrifice would bring security.

The men and women in blue suits, lined up at the front, watched in silence. Some had worked tirelessly for months, following protocols, obeying orders, relying on systems larger than themselves. Now they stood there, hands clasped behind their backs, staring at a seemingly endless row of coffins. Their eyes held weariness, but also guilt, though no one had pointed it out to them directly.

The sun beat down, illuminating the pale wood of the coffins. That light brought no comfort. On the contrary, it made everything more real, more raw. Each coffin represented an interrupted story: a mother who never returned home, a grandfather who didn’t see his grandchildren grow up, a young man who never imagined his name would end up as part of a silent statistic.

No one was crying loudly. There were no individual funerals, no speeches, no flowers. Just a collective scene of restrained grief. Because when the pain is too great, it stops crying out. It becomes heavy, dense, settles in the chest, and never leaves.

The “global alert” wasn’t just a warning. It was a reflection of global fear, of the mistrust that had been sown. It didn’t matter if the answers weren’t yet clear. The image had already done its work. It had sown doubt, awakened deep-seated fears, and reminded the world how fragile we are when we place our faith in promises we don’t always fully understand.

When the work was finished, some slowly removed their protective suits. Others left without a word. The land was scarred, not only by the disturbed earth, but by the memory of what had happened. That image would remain etched in the minds of those who saw it, like an open wound that doesn’t heal easily.

Because beyond the official explanations, the debates, and the conflicting accounts, what remained was the human impact. The weight of so many absences together. The feeling that something had been broken forever.

And so, under the open sky, the coffins remained silent, mute witnesses to a story the world was only beginning to understand. A story shrouded in fear, unanswered questions, and a phrase that echoed endlessly: Global alert for the vaccinated…