Paul looks well and truly fucked up. God considers the wheeling auras of light, the shiver of radiation he can parse as a cascade through his every cell. He considers the shudder of ten thousand voices: not the unreal crush of ten thousand million, but that unholy reverb makes something deep in him flinch all the same. For a moment he stills upon the sand. He simply stands there and regards the sight before him.

Then he takes that final step forward. He stops near enough to touch, gazing down at the ruin of a boy before him, this demigod, this immensely sad kid.

"Life has gone on." His tone is low and calm, just as it always is. It is that same agonizing gentleness, that same patience. "I'm here to walk you back to it, if you'd like to come."