I was running at full speed toward the hospital. I needed answers to confirm what I thought, and I hoped with all my heart that it wasn't what I feared. I didn't know why I had received that letter, and I was terrified to find out.
From the beginning, something had felt wrong—whether it was the fact that I had only been asked to monitor her psychological state, her withdrawn behavior at first, her mother's attitude, or the way Claire reacted when she saw her sister. Something wasn't right, and I needed to know what.
I finally arrived in front of the hospital—the place where everything had started: my meeting with Claire, with Rose, with Tom, even my reconciliation with my family. It was around 6 p.m., and as usual, it was still open.
I walked in with the intention of getting answers. I rushed toward Claire's room—the place of our first meeting, the day she had been so grumpy and unbearable with me.
Standing in front of her door, I felt my heart pounding wildly. I was afraid of the answers waiting behind it, but I opened it anyway—and to my surprise, it was the hospital director I found inside, smoking as he stared at the moon through the wide‑open window.
"Oh, it's you, Léon? You're early. You must have figured it out, haven't you?" he said, curious.
"What is this?" I asked furiously, showing him the letter.
"The invitation to Claire's funeral," he said calmly, taking a drag from his cigarette.
"But she's alive, isn't she? I just saw her!" I shouted, clenching my fists.
"She's sick—and not mentally. She suffers from a condition that makes her lifespan much shorter than that of a normal human. Her heart doesn't grow with her body, so it can't keep up anymore. Her parents only learned about it after she turned two, and it was a miracle she was still alive. Great cardiologists estimated she wouldn't live past twenty‑five, but she managed to live one more year. Unfortunately, when I examined her three months ago, I discovered she had no more than three months left. Her heart was starting to fail. She must already be dead by now." he said solemnly before finishing his cigarette.
The moment he finished speaking, everything became obvious—the way her mother had told me to accompany her through her final stretch, the way Claire had said she wanted to enjoy the time she had left with us… everything pointed to this.
I collapsed to the floor as tears began to fall slowly.
"You don't regret anything, do you? You took such good care of her that you got attached, and now she's gone. That's the life of a doctor. If I assigned you to this incurable case, it was to teach you that the hard way," he said coldly before opening the door and leaving me alone in utter despair.
"I don't regret anything… Nothing… I don't regret it… but why? Why must she be taken from me? WHY MUST THEY TAKE AWAY THE WOMAN I LOVE!" I screamed through my tears.
Then I noticed the box she had left this morning. On top of it was a letter—one from her. I grabbed it and wiped my tears, hoping it would contradict everything the director had just said. But when I opened it, I found something else.
Dear Léon,
If you're reading this letter, it means I'm no longer in this world…
You may not know it yet, but I suffer from an incurable illness.
I'm sorry for not telling you anything, and please don't come to my funeral, because I won't be able to wipe your tears…
Telling you not to be sad would be stupid.
You know I'm not good with words, but I can assure you of one thing:
you softened the horrible life I lived.
I've never met anyone like you, which is a shame—if I had met you earlier, my life would have been different.
Whether it was your way of talking, making me laugh, your overflowing energy, your talent for dragging me into your absurd debates, or your idiotic antics… I loved all of it.
Without realizing it, you lightened my heart and brought my smile back.
What matters most to me in someone I love is that they can make me forget all my worries—not whisper sweet, empty words.
I know how cruel this world is, and I must admit… you made it beautiful during the time I spent with you.
Maybe I'll never say it enough in this life, but I love you.
I left something for you in the box—three books I wrote:
one to explain everything,
another where I wrote everything I couldn't tell you and might never have time to,
and the last one is a gift.
From the woman who loved you the most.