Noah looked down through the rivers of terminal infinity.
Past the obsidian gray currents and the warring fronts of definition and Undefinition, he saw her.
A little girl, no older than ten by any human reckoning, curled in a fetal position and spinning slowly in the storm of unstable First Cause that she herself was holding together. Her face was visible in glimpses as she turned. It showed pain. Not discomfort, not distress, but the specific excruciating agony of a being experiencing more suffering than any frame was built to hold, held at a pitch that did not waver because the thing producing it did not waver.
She was small. She wore tattered blue rags that had once been garments of Infinity, the fabric carrying faint traces of what it had been before eons of holding endings wore it down to threads.
