He folds it a hundred and three times.

The world would end with him successfully folding something in half one hundred and three times. A sheet of paper, say. He doesn’t even know it has been calculated before. We don’t even know he’s trying. He doesn’t even know that it is impossible. That every single time, after ten, eleven folds, the paper is compacted to a little clot so solid that no hand, no gargantuan iron will could force that tortured sheet to fold in half even just one more time. Still, he keeps trying.

As the paper’s shrinking, he needs to grow in proportion. He bends first, crouching close to the ground, as he grabs the edge of that immense, vapor-thin vellum, folds it up dynamically, and then uses that same momentum, with his knees bent and all hunched up, staying flat and running toward the opposite corner. But as the paper is folded, rising, he’s getting upright as well, he’s growing just the same. Always big enough just so that he can fold it again, once more.

And this, in turn, suggests that he will outgrow this known Universe earlier than his origami. One fold earlier. And then he’d already be so vast that no one could recognize him, no one could notice that he is human, with paper.

All will be as it was in the beginning.