Only afterwards did I stop to think that maybe, just maybe, I had killed an innocent. I’m really not sure that she was a moth of the cloth-eating variety. She was completely white, with wings that formed a delicately curved chevron at their rest. In all honesty, she really was quite pretty. There’s nothing left except for this vague sense of regret for destroying something beautiful. I wonder if this is how the Turks felt after sacking Constantinople.
Passion can be a strange and unpredictable motivator.
