Until The Last Day (Claire and Lorenzo) novel Chapter 16

Lorenzo’s POV

Claire’s funeral was small.

There weren’t many people. Only family, a few college friends, two neighbors, and some old classmates who still lived in the area. Everyone was quiet, pale, confused. News of her death spread fast but her departure felt unreal to them.

They all said the same thing. “She looked fine.” “She was smiling.”

But depression wasn’t loud. Claire’s pain had been silent. And none of us heard her.

The coffin was empty–there was neither a body nor ashes, not even a piece of clothing to remember her by. It was filled to the brim with yellow and white chrysanthemums.

A 14–inch framed black–and–white portrait sat in the center. That single photo was the only proof Claire had ever existed. Everyone stared at it like they were waiting for someone to explain.

Guests whispered in confusion. Some came directly to me.

“Was she cremated already? Where did they put her ashes?““Couldn’t you bring some of the clothes or belongings she used in life?“I didn’t have an answer that could be spoken out loud.

I stood stiff and white–faced. My lips refused to move. My stomach twisted. My throat sealed shut. Question after question came, but I kept silent because I knew no explanation would lessen the horror of the truth:

There was nothing left of Claire because she made sure there wouldn’t be anything left of Claire.

After all these years together, I hadn’t kept anything related to her.

The portrait on the altar, I only had it because it was the black–and–white single photograph she took at the studio. The photographer printed it and left it on the counter. Claire had slipped it into her bag and took it with her to Switzerland. And after she died, the euthanasia center handed it tome.

As I stared at the portrait, all I could think of was the moment that photo was taken and how I hadn’t noticed the meaning behind it. How I hadn’t noticed the blank sadness behind her smile.

If I had paid just a little more attention, even for one minute, I would have realized she wasn’t making memories, she was ending them. She wasn’t capturing life, she was preparing closure.

I had believed I hid everything perfectly. I had assumed Claire was blissfully unaware of the affair, because she never questioned me directly, never yelled, never begged.

But I didn’t need to say anything for her to know.

She knew my carelessness. She knew my distance. She saw me smiling at another woman. She watched me walk ahead with Aria countless times while she stayed behind in that wheelchair.

Claire knew everything.

She waited for me to confess on my own.

—

colder than outside. Heavier than the snow. The floorboards creaked like old bones under my shoes.

I stood in the middle of the room, holding the frame against my chest, and everything inside me sank. I wondered how a home so full of life just days ago could become this dark, abandonedvoid.

Silence pressed on my ears until it seemed to drown out my heartbeat itself. I didn’t know how long I stood there, hours maybe. Time didn’t function normally anymore. It stretched into one long night I couldn’t escape from.

I sank down on the couch, still holding her portrait.

My fingers ran over the edge of the wooden frame again and again. It was the only warmth left inthe room.

Eventually, after what felt like an endless night, light broke.

After more than ten days of constant rain and snow, a new year finally came. A weak beam of sunlight entered through the narrow gap between the curtains. It cut through the room like a blade, thin but real.

I lifted my hand slowly into that beam. My fingers trembled as the light rested on my skin, pale and scarred.

For a moment, I didn’t know if I was trying to reach for warmth…or if I was just trying to grasp a handful of dust.