Until The Last Day (Claire and Lorenzo) novel Chapter 12

Lorenzo’s POV 

The phrases “condolences” and “severely depressed” kept circling in my mind, as if I had already lost the ability to understand. Half a year ago, the doctor had issued a certificate stating that her depression was in remission. Then how could she still be clinically depressed? 

And Claire was only temporarily missing, so why were we handling her affairs already? My mind became a mess, but the staff didn’t give me time to think and kept talking nonstop. 

“Mr. Moretti?” the staffer prompted. “We received death certificate materials sent by the Swiss organization. The embassy confirmed its authenticity. As her legal next of kin, we needed your cooperation to complete the procedures.  

I blinked. My mouth opened and closed. 

“Death,” I repeated, like it was a language I never learned. “Death?” 

He softened. “You weren’t informed?” 

“You said…” I swallowed. “You said the embassy confirmed?” 

He nodded. “Yes.” 

He seemed surprised I didn’t know. He told me what they had on file: Half a month ago, Claire came here to submit an application to cancel her ID. She was calm, lucid. Yesterday, notice arrived: she completed euthanasia and passed away. That was why they called me, to finalize the cancellation. ‘

“Were you aware of this?” he asked gently. 

I could understand each word. I couldn’t piece them together. 

“Claire didn’t…” My voice dragged. “She didn’t leave to die. She left because she was angry. She was only twenty-four. She wrote a list. She had wishes. She still had time to-” My breath snagged. “She wouldn’t die.” 

My own voice became thinner, hoarse, low. I tugged my hair with both hands as if pain could make a different truth appear. 

“She promised her parents.” The words stumbled out. “She said she’d live well. She told me she wanted to see the first snowfall. Switzerland hasn’t even it didn’t snow. She wouldn’t go yet. She wouldn’t.” 

The staffer didn’t argue or comfort me. He waited while I tried to build a tower out of sand with my bare hands. 

I listed more reasons. Her age. Her lists. Her plans. Her promises. 

But nothing I said had proof. Every reason collapsed as soon as I spoke it. 

Nothing I said could prove she was still alive. 

The last spark in me went out. 

A memory rose-clear and cruel: Twenty Wishes written in her neat hand. I told myself it was a silly birthday thing. I called it cute. Normal. Dramatic even. Because we had time. We had years. 

Why would anyone make twenty wishes all at once for an ordinary twenty-fourth birthday?

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