"Do not let go...there may be hope for our survival," he said to his little girl, squeezing her hands reassuringly. 

At this time, the waters were above her little chest.

Christopher looked around. No one was near. Some were on their rooftops, others had a high fortress. But he was alone with a child that trusted him so much it made him cry.

If there was mercy, shouldn't he plead for it? But he had gone over to the ship three times already, and each time, he got the same reply. 

The angel was gone with the keys.

Christopher had no one to blame but himself. He was so occupied with the hunt for daily bread that he neglected he  warnings.

He paced a mile in a minute, with the young one balanced on his neck. At this time, the waters were strong against his chest.

“ How are you doing up there, baby girl?”

"The view is beautiful from here," she said excitedly.

He replied with a weak laugh, eyes heavy from two days without sleep.

"Papa, " she called, “ we are going to be alright.”

Christopher nodded, but he was completely drained of every hope and whatever remained of faith.

As the water surged onto his neck, he scouted for a higher platform where the child could rest. He found it. A rock above the waters.

" We will be fine," he repeated, and gently transferred her to the rock.

He could not last much longer. His legs had grown weak. His hands tired. 

With a smile on his face, he sank to the bottom effortlessly. And every inch into the water, he carried his little girl's picture in his heart like a large portrait.

And as he breathed his last, he prayed that the child would be safe.