Claire’s POV

After my application for euthanasia was approved, I set a death countdown for my husband and his mistress.

My husband Lorenzo was my light, my reason to live.

Even though I was paralyzed while saving him, I never regretted, even after I found his cheating diary.

In which he said he only married me out of duty and guilt.

He claimed to be suffocating, that every minute was torture and he wished he was the one who got paralysed instead, at least the physical pain was nothing compared to his mental guilt.

He admitted that he'd fallen for another girl, “She was vibrant, bright, and lively,” he wrote, “just like Claire had been before the crash.”

“Claire had been before the crash”, I repeated this sentence quietly.

The sound of the door opening brought me back.

“Happy birthday!”

Lorenzo’s voice filled the room. He was holding a paper bag and smiling brightly, his tie loosened, his hair slightly messy.

I smiled softly. “My birthday was yesterday.”

He froze. The smile that had been on his face died down as panic scattered across his embarrassed expression.

“Oh, damn it, Claire, I’m so sorry. Work’s been crazy lately.”

He dropped the bag on the table and knelt in front of me, his hands gently pressing on my legs.

“How are you feeling today?” he changed the topic, rubbing my knees like they could still feel warmth. “Any better?”

I looked down on his hands, he pressed too hard, his slender hands turning red. But my legs can’t feel anything at all.

I didn't respond.

He looked distracted, his eyes wandering to the side. And then his phone rang.

The moment he saw the name, a smile spread across his face.“Sorry, I need to take this,” he said quickly. “Work.”

He turned away, walking out into the hall, his voice dropping low and tender.

I watched him leave silently, knowing clearly that he was lying.

It must have been about the girl he loved.

Since truly loved each other before, I’d seen that genuine, irrepressible smile many times.

Before the car accident, we were a perfectly matched couple. Every morning, he’d wait for me at the school gate, coffee in hand. “Harvard, here we come,” he’d say, and I’d laugh, believing him.

We studied side by side, pushed each other harder, and when the results came, we both made it—near-perfect SAT scores, two scholarships, and a love story everyone envied.

Everything should have ended beautifully.

But life isn’t a fairy tale.

The day before our resumption, we were in a car accident and I subconsciously pushed Lorenzo out of the way. Thus, I took the hit and was paralysed from the waist down.

In that same year, my parents died in a plane crash and all those multiple blows at once resulted in me wanting to end my life.

But Lorenzo stayed. He was my light, my reason. He fed me, lifted me, read to me. He swore he’d never leave, that he’d take care of me forever.

When he proposed after graduation, I cried so hard I could barely say yes.

For three years, he kept his promise.

Until I found his diary. It was in the bottom drawer of his desk, tucked under old papers.The man who declared his love every day had been pouring out his pain in that diary.

"I only married her out of duty and guilt," he had written.

He had feared what the public would say if he abandoned me. He claimed to be suffocating, that every minute was torture and he wished he was the one who got paralysed instead, at least the physical pain was nothing compared to his mental guilt.

I read those words over and over until they blurred. And even though I didn’t want to believe his affair was real, Aria made sure I learned the truth the hard way.

She sent me message the next day I found out the diary.

"Hasn't he suffered enough? Haven't you taken enough from him? What more do you want?" She had written.

"Lorenzo is suffering everyday because of you. He is in pain and all he wanted was to die. But since I came into his life, he's found happiness once again. He loves me now and you're the only thing in the way. You are selfish and heartless. If you truly loved him, then you would have set him free a long time ago. You can still set things right by making Lorenzo and I one."

Right after I had read the message, she sent dozens of intimate pictures of her and Lorenzo, taken from the many secret dates they went to behind my back.

Lorenzo pouring her coffee.Lorenzo peeling shrimp for her, even though he never liked touching seafood for me.Lorenzo holding her hand on the beach, smiling like a boy again.

Every photo stabbed deeper.

My chest tightened until breathing hurt. But my eyes had run dry of tears, a hollow emptiness staring back from them.

Aria kept sending photos every day.Pottery classes. Park walks. Concerts.All on nights Lorenzo told me he was “working late.”

Even last night—my birthday. I sat by the window with a small cake and waited until midnight.

He texted:Sorry, meeting ran long.

But in Aria’s photo, fireworks lit up his face. And, he looked happy. Happier than I’d seen him in years.

Looking at those photos, I smiled bitterly until tears spilled out.

The Lorenzo who once loved me at seventeen no longer loved me at twenty five.

That night, I sat by the window all night. The following day, I submitted all the necessary documents to an overseas euthanasia organization, resolved to end my life.Just two weeks from now and it will all be over.

Since Lorenzo who was the only one I had left, had decided to run from me, then there was no point holding on to what was already out of my reach.

I will let go of him and set myself free too.

Claire’s POV

I sat alone in the living room for a long time after dinner. When the house finally went still, I pushed my wheelchair toward the study and knocked gently.

The door opened a crack. Lorenzo hurriedly ended his call and came out.

“I forgot your birthday,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “To make up for it, and since our third anniversary’s coming up, how about a trip? Anywhere you want.”

I looked up at him. “Switzerland,” I whispered. “I want to see the first snow.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Switzerland?” He laughed softly, trying to sound light. “That’s a long flight, Claire. It might be too hard on you, and we’ll get snow here next month.”

I shook my head. It was rare for me to turn him down.

I only had fifteen days left. I wouldn't live to see next month's snow.

He frowned, confused. Then he nodded slowly. “Alright. I will plan a trip to Switzerland.”

He turned toward his desk, already pulling out his phone to make the arrangements.

I knew he'd agree. I'd read in his diary that every time he came home after seeing Aria, his guilt grew stronger. He always tried to make it up to me.

I set a timer on my phone. A black background, white letters:DEATH COUNTDOWN – 15 DAYS

When Lorenzo came back to tell me the tickets were booked, his tone was gentle, doting.

"I booked the flights. We're going to Switzerland for Christmas."

As he spoke, his eyes flickered toward my phone screen.

Once, no matter what I was doing, he'd come over and pester me with questions, just to get my attention.Now, he had even glanced over at it, but he didn't notice. he just smiled faintly and said, “You should rest.”

He didn’t care anymore.

Relieved that I didn’t press for conversation, he walked away toward the bathroom.The sound of running water filled the silence.

Maybe it was better this way.We both were tired of each other, he of pretending, and I of living under a false ignorance.In fifteen days, all of it would end.

The next morning, I woke up early and opened my notebook.I drew a small heart at the top of the page and titled it:My Wish List.

I began writing:

See my friends

Feed the swans

Have a drink

Watch a sunset by the lake

The list was small, but I wrote each word carefully, focusing on the events I wanted to relive or experience in my last days.

Halfway through, I heard a voice behind me.

“What are you writing?”

Lorenzo’s tone was soft, curious.

“My wish list,” I said without turning around.

He chuckled lightly. “You used to do that when you were seventeen….”

Then he stopped, almost instantly. He knew that bringing up the past was like reopening an emotional wound for me.

I turned slightly in my chair. “It’s okay,” I said. “I remember that list too.”

His shoulders relaxed. “You do?”

“Yes. You helped me finish it, remember?” I smiled faintly. “Every little thing on it.”

He smiled, genuine for once. “Of course I remember. You wanted to take photos under the cherry blossoms, skip class to watch the sunrise, sing in the rain... Because I loved you so much. No matter what you did, I wanted to be right there with you. Having you by my side made me fearless. I even jumped off a cliff hundreds of meters high without hesitation."

He was right. It was the time when he really was in love with me. He wanted to be with me no matter what I was doing.I watched his animated expression quietly.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you smile like that,” When his eyes finally drifted back to me,I said softly.

His smile froze.The warmth vanished from his eyes, replaced by awkwardness.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll help you complete this new list too.”

I shook my head. “No need. You have work.”

He looked surprised. “Claire, I—”

And then his phone rang.

The name flashing on the screen was hidden from me, but the way his lips curved said enough.

He turned away. “Sorry, it’s work,” he murmured, already smiling. Then he walked out.

I sat there for a long time, staring at the open page.

There was a time he’d never take no for an answer.He’d insist on being part of everything I did, whether it was silly, reckless, or impossible.He used to say, “If you fall, I’ll fall with you.”

Now, he didn’t even try to convince me. He didn't bother with empty words like "I'll be worried about you".

I laughed quietly. Our love had never truly been tested; it had just withered quietly, piece by piece.

At the top of the page, I added two new words:Bucket List.

Right as I finished, my phone buzzed.

A new message from Aria.

A photo of her sitting in the passenger seat of Lorenzo’s car. Her hair was tied up, sunlight spilling across her face.

Once, I would’ve felt the pain twist deep in my chest.

Now, I felt nothing.

I printed the photo, as I had done with all the others, and slipped it into the drawer with my bucket list.

The drawer was already full of similar provocations she'd been collecting for days.

For me, death is release.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll let them have their happy ending.

Lorenzo should’ve told me the truth instead of betraying me.And Aria—She shouldn’t have mocked the woman she’d already stolen from.

She’s not the sweet, innocent girl Lorenzo described in his diary.She’s cruel. Manipulative.

I would be happy to let Lorenzo see her true colors.

Claire’s POV

Lorenzo didn’t come home for the next few days. He texted once, saying he had to travel for work.

Meanwhile, Aria’s messages kept coming.

Photos of them at restaurants, holding hands in theaters, walking by lakes.She captioned them with tiny hearts, as if mocking me quietly.

I never replied. I only printed them, one by one, and slid them into the same drawer.

With Lorenzo gone, I carried out my bucket list alone.

When I reached item ten,See a flower bloom, I decided to visit the rose park.

The park was famous for its roses. Pink, white, red; they grew in long rows like waves of color.The park was quiet. I wheeled myself slowly along the path.

A few street performers played music under the shade of tall trees, their soft tunes floating through the air.

I wheeled myself down the path, stopping near a fountain where petals drifted on the water.

I glanced toward the sound and saw Lorenzo and Aria not far away.

Sitting together on a bench not far away, sharing snacks and laughing.She picked up a piece of fruit and held it to his lips.He leaned forward and ate it without hesitation, his smile easy, familiar.

Watching the ease in his smile, I froze. I hadn't expected to see them here.

I watched quietly a while longer, then Lorenzo stood up and walked toward the small crowd gathered around a musician, and asked to borrow his guitar.

The performer grinned and handed it over.Lorenzo sat on a stool and said loudly, “This is for Aria, the girl I love.”

The crowd cheered. Aria covered her face, pretending to be shy.

And then he began to play.

The melody hit me before the words did. It wasoursong. The one he wrote for me when we were sixteen.

He’d sung it for me at our school festival, under yellow lights, while the entire auditorium screamed and clapped.He’d recorded it so I could listen whenever I missed him.

That night, I’d believed love could last forever.

Now, that same song was a blade.

He sang it to her with the same tenderness he once gave to me. The same little tilt of his head, the same half-smile before the final line.

The crowd melted around them.People clapped.Girls whispered, “That’s so romantic.”

One woman beside me said softly, “So sweet, isn’t it? He must love her a lot.”

I felt my throat tighten. My eyes burned.

She looked at me kindly. “Miss, why are you crying? Did the song move you that much?”

I wiped my tears with the back of my hand, slowly shook my head, and turned my wheelchair toward the exit.The music followed me until it faded into silence.

The nineteenth on my list was to visit our alma mater.

I wheeled myself down the familiar paths, past the red-brick library where Lorenzo and I used to study until midnight, whispering answers before exams.Past the small café where he’d surprise me with strawberry milkshakes.Past the track field where he’d run laps with me after school, always slowing down at the last minute so I could win.

Every corner held memories of them together. But now that I couldn't walk, I could only look from a distance.

Finally, I stopped under the old oak tree at the edge of the campus.

Lorenzo had planted this tree himself during a class activity years ago. All the other trees her classmates had planted had died later, leaving this one alone.

It wasn't because the tree was especially resilient, but because Lorenzo had come to check on it every day, watering and fertilizing it from time to time. He'd never missed a day, whether in cold winters or hot summers.

When I’d found out about it, I’d asked him why he cared so much about a single tree. He'd pulled me over to the tree, brushed away the weeds around it. I'd looked closely and noticed a line of words carved into the base of the trunk.

Eight years later, the tree had grown to reach my waist height, aligning perfectly with me as I sat in my wheelchair.

I took out a small knife I'd brought with me and slowly scraped off every bit of that carved line: “Lorenzo will always love Claire.”

I stared at it for a long moment. It hurt, but my lips curved into a small smile. He hadn’t kept his promise but at least I could let it go for him.

After leaving the school, I went to the city registry office.The clerk, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes, looked puzzled when I told her I wanted to cancel my registration.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said. “We can only do that for the deceased.”

I handed her the folder I had prepared, the euthanasia approval papers, my medical records, and my signed statement.

“All my family members are gone. I'll be getting a divorce soon. There will be no one to handle this after I'm gone, so I'd rather take care of it myself now” I explained quietly.

She hesitated, then excused herself to speak with her superior.When she returned, her expression had softened.

“We can make an exception,” she said. “As long as the hospital sends confirmation afterward.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

As I rolled outside and reached for my phone to call a cab, a familiar voice cut through the air.

“Claire, what are you doing here?”

Lorenzo stood by his car, eyes wide, confusion and alarm written all over his face.

Claire’s POV

I hadn’t expected to see Lorenzo here.

I didn't answer his question but asked him. “What are you doing here?”

He blinked, hesitated, and then said quickly, “I—I was having dinner nearby with a friend. I saw you passing by and thought I should check.”

His tone was casual, but the flicker of panic in his eyes betrayed him. Before I could respond, a familiar voice called from behind him.

“Lorenzo, what’s taking so long?”

Aria Vale stepped out of the car. She was wearing a cream-colored coat, her hair loose and shining in the sunlight. When her gaze met mine, her expression shifted slightly, surprise first, then something almost triumphant, carefully hidden behind a polite smile.

“Oh,” she said, walking closer, “is this your wife?”

Lorenzo’s shoulders tensed. “Yes. Aria, this is Claire.” His voice wavered, then steadied again. “Claire, this is Aria.”

Aria extended her hand toward me, her smile warm, practiced. “Nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Claire. Did you come all the way out here for something important?”

I looked at her hand but didn’t take it. Instead, I lowered my gaze. “I’m just here to fulfill a birthday wish for a friend,” I said softly. “And take a few pictures.”

“Really?” Aria’s voice brightened. “That’s perfect! I’m actually great at photography. Maybe I can help pick the outfits, too.”

I lifted my eyes to Lorenzo.When he didn't object, I didn't refuse.

We then rode together in Lorenzo’s car. I sat alone in the back seat.

At first, the car was quiet. Lorenzo held back, not daring to say much. But soon, Aria started a conversation about a recently released movie. Out of courtesy, he responded to her briefly.

It was a topic he enjoyed, so he got carried away, forgetting that I was in the back.

When we arrived at the photo studio, they stepped out first, still laughing.

I waited for a moment, then slowly reached for my wheelchair, struggling to pull it out myself. My hands shook slightly as I locked the wheels in place and pushed forward, following behind them.

At the entrance, a young greeter smiled brightly. “Welcome! Are you here for a couple’s photoshoot? You two look so perfect together!”

Lorenzo froze. His face darkened instantly. “She’s not my wife,” he said, voice sharp. “Please don’t talk nonsense.”

The greeter’s eyes widened. “Oh! I’m so sorry, sir! You just looked so... well, compatible.”

Lorenzo didn’t answer. His gaze flicked toward me, and for this time, he seemed to realize how it must look.

He rushed back to my side. “Sorry,Claire, we got so caught up talking that we forgot about you. Why didn't you say something? ,” he said softly, guilt written all over his face.

Aria followed, tilting her head with an apologetic smile. “Oh no, I didn’t even notice! Why didn’t you tell us earlier, Claire?”

I watched their performance quietly, feeling nothing but tiredness. I said nothing.

Once, Lorenzo and I had been the couple people envied. We’d shared inside jokes, whispered plans for the future, laughed until it hurt. Now, even small talk between us felt impossible.

The receptionist appeared, clipboard in hand, eager to smooth over the tension. “What kind of photos would you like today?”

Lorenzo and Aria both turned to me.

I said quietly, “Just… some random shots.”

“Sounds good!” Aria clapped her hands together. “Claire, why don’t you go pick out a few outfits? Since it's hard for you to move around, Lorenzo and I can test some poses first, so you’ll know what to do when it’s your turn.”

Before I could respond, she tugged at Lorenzo’s sleeve. “Come on, let’s get started.”

He hesitated. For a brief second, he looked back at me, guilt flickering across his face. But then Aria laughed, and he followed her.

From my chair, I watched them step in front of the camera.

At first, Lorenzo kept his distance, hands stiff, expression uneasy.But under Aria’s gentle coaxing, that distance faded. She touched his arm, adjusted his tie, leaned into his shoulder.

The photographer praised them. “Perfect, just like that! You two have great chemistry.”

Aria smiled coyly.

Lorenzo chuckled softly, eyes softening as she whispered something that made him laugh harder.

I just watched them from a distance, laughing under the studio lights. The camera flashed again and again, freezing their smiles into something permanent.

When I realized they weren’t going to stop, I called over another photographer.

“I’d like a black and white portrait,” I said.

He scratched his head, hesitant. “Black and white can look a bit… cold. Maybe you’d prefer color? Or we can edit in a soft filter—”

“No,” I interrupted quietly. “Black and white is fine.”

He studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Alright.”

When he lifted the camera, I sat still, not smiling, not posing.A shadow against light. A woman fading quietly from her own story.

When the photo was developed, he handed me a small envelope. “Here,” he said softly.

I nodded. “Thank you.”

I was still holding that envelope when Lorenzo and Aria walked toward me, their arms brushing as they carried their printed photos.

Aria was smiling. “Claire,” she said sweetly, “Sorry, we got carried away and forgot about you. Why don't you two take some photos now.”

I shook my head. “No need.”

Lorenzo looked guilty, his jaw tightening. “Claire… please. At least let me do something to make it up to you.”

“I said it’s fine,” I replied, my voice even.

But guilt makes people desperate to fix things that can’t be fixed.

“Then I’ll buy you something,” he said suddenly. “A necklace. You’ve always liked jewelry, right?”

Before I could answer, Aria clapped her hands. “Perfect! I’ll come too. I also have been eyeing some earrings.”

So we decided to go to the mall for buying jewellery, Aria was more interested in. It was a big, crowded mall, full of music and chatter.

Lorenzo’s phone buzzed before we even reached the first store.

“Sorry, work call,” he said, stepping away toward the parking lot. “I’ll be quick.”

Aria and I stood in awkward silence for a few seconds.

I didn’t want to shop. I didn’t even want to be there. “I’ll head out,” I said quietly. “You can wait for him.”

“Oh no, I’ll walk you,” she said quickly, smiling too wide.

We were halfway down the corridor when the fire alarm went off. The siren blared, loud, sudden, and terrifying. Red lights flashed across the ceiling.

People screamed. Someone shouted “Fire!” and chaos broke out.

In seconds, the hallway was a wave of bodies, people shoving, running, and tripping over one another.

Aria let go of my chair. I tried to grab the wheel, but someone slammed into the handle.The next moment, I was falling.

The floor came up fast. Pain exploded through my shoulder as I hit the tiles.

Someone kicked the wheel. Another stumbled over me. My hand burned.

Gripping a railing, I struggled to lift my head and saw Lorenzo fighting his way toward us against the flow of people.

His face was white with fear. He pushed through the people, pulled Aria into his arms. His voice trembled with relief. “Are you hurt? Are you okay?”

She shook her head, clinging to him. He exhaled in relief, holding her tighter.

It wasn’t until Aria looked down and said, “Lorenzo, she’s on the ground,” that he even saw me.

His expression changed instantly. “Claire!”

He rushed to me, kneeling beside the wheelchair that had been knocked over. “God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you. Are you hurt?”

His words tumbled over each other. Guilt. Panic. Apologies.

I said nothing. My expression was calm, as if nothing had happened.

As we left the mall, I overheard a girl whispering to her friend, her voice filled with awe.

“Did you see that guy? He ranagainst the crowdjust to find his girlfriend. That’s love, isn’t it?”

Her friend giggled. “Lucky girl.”

My fingers were trembling on the wheel. I knew they were talking about Lorenzo and Claire. And then I noticed Lorenzo.

It was the same look he’d had in high school, when he’d run into the rain to pull me from a collapsing tent.He was still brave. Still willing to risk himself for someone he loved.

Only now, that person wasn’t me.

Claire’s POV

When we returned home, Lorenzo wouldn’t stop apologizing. He carefully cleaned and bandaged my wounds.

For the next few days, he didn’t go out. He stayed by my side almost constantly.

He stayed beside me every hour, helping me eat, adjusting my blanket, asking if I was in pain. If I dropped something, he rushed to pick it up.

I remained indifferent to his action.

A few nights later, I rolled my wheelchair out of the room and down the dim hallway toward the study.

I knew exactly where he had hidden it. The second drawer on the right. Beneath the folders. His diary.

I pulled it out and opened it to the most recent page and saw the page filled with words: "Lorenzo, you're such a piece of shit." I closed it without reading further.

Just as I left the study,the bedroom door burst open, and Lorenzo came running out, shirtless, barefoot, his hair disheveled from sleep.

When he saw I was unharmed, he let out a long sigh of relief. "Claire, it's so late. What are you doing out here yourself?"

I turned the chair toward him, keeping my face calm. “I was just thirsty.”

He hurried into the kitchen, filled a glass of water, and knelt in front of me, pressing it into my hands.

“Next time, call me, okay?” he said, his tone soft but urgent. “I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

I watched him.

“Lorenzo,” I said quietly, “is there something you want to tell me?”

If he had been honest, I would have let him go without a fight.

He froze. Then he shook his head. “No. Nothing.”

I closed her eyes and smiled, hiding the disappointment in my gaze.

The next morning, I began erasing us.

I started with the photo albums. The ones filled with pictures of our youth, our trips, our smiles. And then I cut them.

Lorenzo stared at the fragments covering the floor, stunned. "Why did you cut up all our photos?"

I didn’t even look up. “They got wet,” I said simply. “The photos blurred. Not worth keeping.”

He stared at me. “You could’ve just printed new copies—”

“I’ll take new ones later,” I said calmly, cutting through another image. “These don’t look good anymore.”

Something in my calmness unnerved him more than anger ever could.He stood there for a while, silent, searching my face for something he couldn’t name.

Finally, he said softly, “Alright… if that’s what you want.”

Then he turned and walked away.

On the third morning, I called the housekeeper.

“Clean everything,” I said. “Anything that comes in pairs, throw it out.”

By afternoon, the house looked emptier, lighter.

Two cups became one. The small matching scarves we bought in Paris vanished from the hooks by the door. The refrigerator magnets, the anniversary mugs, even the framed photo on the shelf, all gone.

When Lorenzo came home that evening, he stood in the kitchen, frowning.

“Where’s the blue mug?” he asked. “The one I always use.”

“It got moldy,” I said simply.

He hesitated, then nodded. He didn’t notice that the scarf he bought me last winter was missing too, or that the small heart-shaped keychains no longer dangled from the drawer handle.

A few days later, I gathered all the gifts he’d ever given me. Bracelets, purses, perfume bottles, a silver watch and packed them neatly into boxes.

When he found me by the door, he looked confused. “What’s all this?”

“I’m donating them,” I said. “The styles are outdated. You can buy me new ones later if you want.”

As the days passed, the house began to empty, one piece at a time. The laughter frozen in photos disappeared from the walls. The gifts, the small mementos of our love, vanished into charity bins and garbage bags.

By the end of the week, nothing was left that tied me to this place or to him.

And somehow, Lorenzo never noticed.

Then, on the anniversary of my parents’ death, Lorenzo offered to accompany me to the cemetery. It was a cold, gray afternoon.

He pushed my wheelchair through the narrow path between the gravestones.When we stopped before my parents’ graves, I looked at their names carved into the marble.

“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad,” I said softly. “I hope you’re doing well. We’ll see each other soon.”

Lorenzo shifted beside me. “What do you mean?” he asked, uneasy.

Before I could answer, a voice called from behind.

“Lorenzo?”

We turned.

Aria stood a few steps away, pale and damp from the rain. Her hair clung to her face, her ankle wrapped in a thin bandage.

“Aria?” Lorenzo’s expression changed instantly — concern replacing confusion. “What happened? Why are you here?”

“I was visiting my grandmother,” she said weakly. “I slipped and hurt my ankle.” Her voice trembled, threaded with pain. “It hurts so much, Lorenzo… I can barely walk.”

Without hesitation, he rushed toward her.

“Let me see,” he said, crouching beside her. “Can you stand?”

“No.” Aria cried. “Please take me to the hospital.”

He nodded quickly. “Of course. Don’t move.”

Then he turned back toward me, his voice hurried but soft. “Claire, stay here with your parents for a bit. I’ll take Aria to the hospital and come right back, alright?”

Before I could say a word, he had already lifted Aria by the arm, supporting her as they walked away through the rain, leaving me alone in the cemetery.

Claire’s POV

I waited at the cemetery for three hours.

The drizzle had turned into a fine mist now. The sky too had darkened now.

I checked my phone. No messages. No calls. Lorenzo hadn’t come back.

My hands gripped the wheels of the chair tightly. I was at the verge of my patience and finally, I decided to leave on my own.

For a few seconds, everything went smoothly. The rain hissed against the metal, my wheels gliding faster and faster. Then suddenly they become too fast.

Before I could brake, the wheels slipped. The chair slammed into the guardrail.

When I stopped rolling, blood trickled down my forehead, mixing with the water. My palms were raw, my face stung. The cold water, with the breeze made my breathing struggled. I shaking already.

Lying alone on the ground, unnoticed, I could do nothing but watch the raindrops fall.

The cold made me shiver uncontrollably. I bit my lip to hold back the pain spreading across my body.

But time dragged on painfully slow.

I didn't know how long I'd been lying there. Just when I thought I would freeze to death, I heard the footsteps.

“Claire!”Lorenzo dropped the umbrella, kneeling beside me, lifting me into his arms. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I should’ve come sooner—”

I stared at him, my gaze blank. “If my legs were still healthy,” I whispered, “I might have gotten out of here on my own.”

The words hit him harder than any slap.

He slapped himself hard across the face. he muttered hoarsely. “It’s my fault. All of it. I promise nothing like this will ever happen again.”

For the next few days, Lorenzo didn’t leave my side.

He followed me everywhere — from the bedroom to the balcony, from the kitchen to the garden.

If I wanted tea, he made it. If I wanted to sit outside, he brought blankets and cushions.

The air in the house softened, as if time had rolled backward to the days before the accident, — when love still felt effortless, when we still believed forever was real.

But I knew better. Life didn't offer second chances.

The warmth in his eyes was only guilt burning itself out.His sudden tenderness, a fragile illusion trying to cover the cracks.

I just stared at him silently, counting the days, waiting for the final day to come.

Finally, the my time was coming. Our plane touched down in Switzerland on Christmas Eve.

When we arrived at the hotel, the city was wrapped in gold lights and carols echoed faintly from the streets below. The first snow was supposed to fall tonight — that was what the forecast had promised.

But before we could even unpack, his phone rang.

He glanced at the screen, frowning, and walked to the balcony to answer it.Ten minutes later, he came back in, the frown still there.

“Claire,” he said, picking up his bag. “Something’s happened at work. I have to go immediately.”

I looked at him quietly. “Do you really have to?”

He hesitated only a moment before nodding. “It’s urgent. I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Enjoy the snow tonight, okay?”

Tomorrow.

I didn’t tell him that I would be gone tomorrow.

I wheeled myself to the floor-to-ceiling window and sat there all night, but the forecasted first snow never came.

At dawn, she received a message from Aria—a photo taken in a hospital room.Lorenzo sat beside her bed, peeling an orange. His smile was soft, tender, filled with warmth.

I stared at the screen until my vision blurred. Then I turned it face-down on the table.

By sunrise, I was already outside. My hands trembled slightly on the wheels as I pushed my chair down the quiet street.

Before going in, I stopped and tilted my head back. The sky stretched endless and gray. No snow. Not even a whisper of it.

I let out a small laugh. Even the weather had lied to me. Not just Lorenzo, everything I’d ever waited for had betrayed me in the end.

On the last day of my life, I still didn't get to see the first snow.

I turned the chair and rolled toward the entrance. The automatic doors slid open with a soft hiss.

The staff greeted me gently, their voices quiet and professional.

“Mrs. Claire,” one nurse said, “do you have anyone you’d like to see before we begin?

“No.”

“Do you have any last words you would like us to pass on?”

“No.”

“Any unfinished matters you’d like us to handle?”

“No.”

I answered every question calmly. I had no final words for Lorenzo.

When they prepared the medication, I told them softly, “When I die, don’t bury me, just immediately cremate me. And scatter my ashes somewhere when the first snow falls.”

They agreed. Then everything went still.

A gentle tingling spread through my hand. First sharp, then fading, like warmth dissolving into air.

My breathing slowed.

My thoughts began to drift.

I saw flashes; laughter in a classroom, the scent of spring rain, the sound of his guitar under the stage lights.Running teenagers. Summer afternoons. My parents’ faces.

All of it blurred together, softening at the edges, until it became light —a quiet, endless mist. I floated in it. I closed my eyes.

Next second, a familiar ringtone rang out — the one I had especially set for Lorenzo.