He replayed the events over and over again. Not to search for a way he could have stopped them, or to reiterate how close he’d come to his own death, or anything else—except to simply force himself to relive every moment for the sake of penance to the woman who had died right in front of him. To recall all the arid books lost because of him. It felt selfish not to force himself to witness the mistake again and again and again and again. Selfish. Impertinent. Arrogant.
