Is There An Echo In Here?

Someone has to guard the end of time. No one ever comes. You are a quintillion-year-old entity in the shape of a seven to eleven-year-old child, made of swirling black-and-gray void. You sit in an endless white-tiled room that is only six feet high, talking into the silence and arranging the small toys and furniture that occasionally appear through soft portals. Your only duty is to keep watch. Nothing has ever arrived.