Questions, questions, questions.

Lavi detested questions.

He hated how they had to be asked no matter how trivial or complex an issue was just because it was his responsibility, his duty to keep track of everything as history unfolded.

He hated how questions left him grappling with facts and falsehoods for lies blinded him and the truth, the fucking truth had never ever set him free.

Most of all, Lavi hated the seemingly God-given rule that certain questions were just better left unanswered; it barred him from seeking that elusive closure his soul sorely needed.

He hated them, loathed them, despised them.

And yet the Bookman-in-making was never fated to waver in this sloggery, his upright shoulders bearing the burden of every question asked, answered and left hanging in uncertainty.