It nearly collapses him, the simplicity of the touch, this offer of insight, the kindness of both of them. It partially does, but he has a hand pressed to Louis', keeping it there as he allows himself that moment of breaking, allowing in the possibility that perhaps he did something well for her, in the midst of the horror.

It allows for the next thing, which is, "I'm sorry," thick in his throat. "That I couldn't save her."

The world had shrunk to a pinhole in the moments after he'd manipulated the room. Standing for the denouement, swaying on his heels. Maybe if he had been a better maker, the father she had seen in him in those final moments, he wouldn't have cared. Would have moved from his spot, would have tried, however uselessly.

And she would be dead, still, and perhaps so would he, and Louis left starving in his box, but the neat circle of justification is scattered aside as he shakes his head. It had all struck him too late.