A/N: I really don't think this is canon-compliant because this would've blown a hole right through Claire's 'Celeste' ruse—if this was canon, I am nearly 100% {*feels like Alfendi all of a sudden* xD} certain that Hershel would've remembered. And…I think in a way this is me shaking my fist at Chelmey and making him forgettable because (I've only played through UF once, but I can remember this quite clearly) when Hershel was asking about the victims in the lab other than Dimitri Allen and the inspector said that was all and he didn't remember anyone else…I could've killed him because Claire is not forgettable, mmkay? Seriously…HATS OFF TO HER—OH GOSH, WHAT DID I JUST DO? *collapses into incoherent sobs* Please enjoy. Dx

Even though everyone knew, they had asked him to identify her; police records and all needing the confirmation. He wished they could've given the job to anyone else. Not him. Why did he have to see her like this? He didn't want to remember her like this—broken and gone—forever—but he knew the image would never leave his mind.

"Yes," he choked out. "Yes…that's—it's—they're right. Everyone's…right."

The commissioner (was his name Chelmey? Hershel couldn't remember) seemed to take pity on him and gruffly said, "Thanks for the word of confirmation, Professor," as he pulled the sheet back over Claire's still form.

But something was bothering Hershel—something more than seeing her…like this. There was something uncannily…wrong. He needed more information.

"Excuse me for troubling you further, Commissioner," he began quite steadily now that he couldn't see her face anymore; now it could've been anyone under that sheet, "but you said she was found like this?"

The man who was presumably Chelmey raised his eyebrows. "Well of course, the medical staff cleaned her up some, but yeah, same clothes and everything—didn't have time to dress her in something else…that'll come later. We just needed the confirmation first."

"I understand. Thank you."

"Would you like a moment?"

But Hershel knew he needed a thousand—and not even that would be enough. "I—" he hesitated. This wasn't how he ever imagined telling her goodbye; in a very lonely, sterile-looking, police department morgue.

The commissioner got up from his perch against the sink's counter. "I'll lock the door on my way out," he said as he left. The door had already shut behind him before Hershel was able to tell him thank you.

He almost felt as though he was invading her privacy in some way as he removed the sheet again—or perhaps there was something distinctly private about death that demanded respect. She could've been asleep, but her body was so cold. His fingers trailed over her hair that was thankfully still soft as it had been that morning, and he spoke to her, knowing they were alone and would be for a while.

"My dear…" he began, his eyes filling with tears, "Weren't you wearing something else?"