Until The Last Day (Claire and Lorenzo) novel Chapter 15

Lorenzo’s POV 

I waited on the sofa, counting the seconds in my head. The hallway hummed. A door clicked somewhere down the corridor. Snow blurred the window until the world looked like soft chalk. 

When the receptionist finally returned, she was empty-handed. 

Something inside me dropped. 

I stood fast. “Where are her ashes?” I asked, voice raw. “Please. Tell me you have them. Tell me where they are.” 

Her expression shifted, pity first, then caution. “Mr. Moretti,” she said gently, “according to our records, Mrs. Moretti made arrangements in advance for the handling of her remains. We have already honored her wishes.” 

I stared. I didn’t understand. “Already… honored-what does that mean?” 

“It means there was nothing left to collect,” she said softly. “Your trip… I’m afraid it was unnecessary.” 

My legs went weak. I caught the edge of the table and lowered myself back to the sofa like an old man. 

“Let me see the paperwork,” I said after a moment. “Please.” 

She hesitated. “It may distress you further. Perhaps you should rest first. Or we can share a summary-”

“The document,” I repeated, the words scraping my throat. “Give it to me.” 

Another staff member appeared behind her, older, kind eyes. They looked at each other. The older one shook his head, as if to say Not yet. The receptionist turned back to me. 

“Mr. Moretti,” she said, “Claire was very clear. She completed her forms alone. She was lucid. She chose-” 

“I know what she chose,” I cut in, though I didn’t, not like this. “I need to see it.” 

They hesitated again. I realized then what they were trying to do: protect me from words that would lodge in me forever. Words you couldn’t unsee once you saw them. 

“Please,” I said. “I’m her husband.” 

After a long breath, the older staffer relented. “One moment.” 

He disappeared into the records room and returned with a thin folder. He handed it to me the way people hand over a newborn, careful and slow, as if any sudden movement might break what was inside. 

My palms were damp. I opened it. 

The first page held basic data: name, date of birth, file number. The second page held a short form with three questions. Beside each question: a single answer. 

No. No. No.  

Just two letters, stamped in a square box, repeated three times. They blurred at the edges until they became small black clouds on white. 

I tried to read the line beneath them. A simple sentence. The language was plain, almost gentle. 

But my mind refused to make meaning. The words slid over each other, would not latch, would not form. 

I looked up, lost. 

The older staffer leaned forward, voice soft but clear, like someone guiding a child across a riverbank. “Mrs. Moretti requested immediate cremation following her death,” he said. “She did not want burial. She stated that when the first snow fell, we should take the ashes and scatter them; no ceremony, no audience, no site to mark.” 

He paused. “We followed her instructions.” 

I stared at him, then at the page, then at the window where the snow moved in slow, floating threads. “You… scattered them already?” 

Only then did I understand: it had begun to snow harder. The flakes landed on my eyelashes and melted into tiny drops. They ran down my temples like tears. 

But I couldn’t cry anymore. 

I kept my eyes open and stared into the dark. 

Up there, black sky. Down here, white earth. 

Between them, thin bright points drifting slowly down. Each one real and not real at once. 

I couldn’t tell if what brushed my face were snowflakes or the last pieces of Claire, scattered into a world that would not remember her name. 

Her folder sat under an arm I had forgotten to tighten. Her name was on the tab. The corner grew damp and curled. I smoothed it with my thumb, a useless, tender motion. 

The wind shifted. Somewhere, a bell rang the hour. But I had lost the count. 

Despair spread through me the way cold did patient, tireless, absolute. It filled every part the snow touched. It filled the parts the snow could not reach. 

I was empty of words. Empty of excuses, Empty of the future I had promised her and then misplaced. 

A thought came to me-quiet, simple, terrible in its ease. 

Let it keep falling. 

Let this storm deepen. Let it cover my hands, my chest, my face.  

And, I hoped the snow would fall even harder and bury me completely.