The hand would grasp and release until the universe died and it would wait for a new one to be born and then it would continue. An unending patience. An unending madness.
This went on for so long that Rowan wondered what sort of mind was capable of performing such actions endlessly. For this was not just a mindless effort, since Rowan had a feeling that every grasp of the hand was different as if it was a thief trying to break through the most sophisticated lock ever created.
Every attempt it made was refined and corrected, the thief extrapolated every move, made countless tiny adjustments, and tried again.
This hand continued that effort unceasingly for countless eternities.
Until one day.
A small part of the hand broke through.
That world it descended upon was a desert world and a tiny spark of something with a nature that could not be described with any known measurement tool that could ever exist in a material universe.
