Until The Last Day (Claire and Lorenzo) novel Chapter 14

Lorenzo’s POV 

The first snow in Switzerland didn’t arrive until early January. That was when I came. 

It was my third time in this country. It would also be my last. Once Claire’s ashes are taken care of, I would leave and never come back. 

I stood outside the airport a long time, watching the snow drift down in slow, thin threads. My breath smoked in the cold, my fingers numb inside my gloves. Taxis slid up in a crooked line, headlights cutting through the white. 

I finally raised my hand. 

The driver rolled down the window and asked for an address. I gave him the name of the facility. 

He blinked, surprised. “That place?”. His accent was thick but his meaning was clear. “You’re very young. Why would you…” He trailed off, then tried again, softer. “Life is long. There are many ways. Don’t decide so fast.” 

He meant well. But the words scraped through me. I couldn’t tell him I wasn’t here to die. I couldn’t say anything without my voice breaking. 

So I pretended I didn’t understand. 

He sighed, nodded, and pulled into traffic.  

Snow feathered across the windshield. The city slid by in quiet, gray sheets. My stomach rolled with every turn. The closer we got, the heavier everything felt. 

When we stopped, I paid and stepped out. The cold bit through my coat. The building was white and clean, edges soft under the snow. The glass doors opened with a sound like a sigh. 

Inside, the lobby was warm and still. There were plants in tall pots, a small desk, a bowl of wrapped mints. It looked like a clinic and a hotel at once. 

A receptionist came forward. “Bonjour. Do you have an appointment?” 

The air tilted. For a moment, the floor seemed to shift under me. I grabbed the edge of the desk. The room blurred. 

“Sir?” she asked quickly, reaching out. “Are you alright? Do you need to sit?” 

I was gasping before I noticed it, my chest tight and stubborn. I fumbled in my pocket and found the hard candy the flight attendant had pressed into my palm when I almost fainted earlier. I unwrapped it with shaking fingers and pushed it onto my tongue. It tasted like lemon and metal. Even sweetness had become bitter to me. 

After a moment, I steadied. 

“I’m here to ask about my wife,” I managed, my voice rough. “Claire.” I took out a photo and slid it across the desk. “Claire Moretti.” 

The receptionist studied it, eyebrows knitting. She looked again, then glanced toward the screen. Her eyes softened with recognition. 

“Yes,” she said slowly. “She came on Christmas Day. Alone.”  

The word alone cut deeper than I expected. 

The receptionist hesitated, then added, “On her application she indicated ‘single.”  

I swallowed. My throat burned. I took out our marriage certificate, creases worn white from my hands, and gave it to her. She checked the names, the dates, the seal, then nodded. 

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