Snow fell in thick, oppressive layers over the Swiss Alps, smothering the world in a silence so deep it felt as if the mountains themselves had drawn in a long, cold breath, and would never let it out. From my office at EPFL, I pressed my hand against the icy windowpane, the cold creeping through my skin. My breath fogged the glass, narrowing my view until all I could see was a vast whiteness. The world was vanishing beneath the storm, roads erased under waves of snow, twisting away, hidden beneath nature’s relentless, indifferent weight.
But I wasn’t thinking about the snow.
Behind me, scattered like the wreckage of a mind long unraveling, lay pages upon pages of notes—equations, diagrams, symbols running off the margins, numbers trailing into chaotic scribbles, unfinished thoughts frozen in time. Quantum entanglement had been the obsession of my life. I had devoted decades to the study of that invisible bond between particles—particles that could exist at impossible distances and still, somehow, remain connected. But what was distance, really, when time itself was just another dimension? What was the nature of space, when causality could ripple through it like a crack through a pane of glass?
I had chased that question for years, and now I was on the verge of an answer. So close that I could almost touch it.
The fire in the hearth crackled weakly, casting dancing shadows across the room, but the heat never seemed to reach me. I wondered, briefly, if I had grown immune to it. The cold suited the thoughts that churned endlessly in my mind—thoughts of time folding in on itself like pages in a book, overlapping, entwining, inextricable from one another. Time wasn’t linear; it wasn’t even circular. It was a loop. A tightening noose around the neck of anyone foolish enough to believe they could manipulate it.
On my desk sat a photograph, the one constant in the chaos of my research. Laure, my wife, laughing. Her arms wrapped around Elsa, our daughter. Elsa—forever caught in that moment—her small hands reaching out, her face bright with the joy of living. Laure had been pregnant again then, though in the picture you could barely tell. A slight swell, her hand resting lightly on her belly, as if cupping the future. A future that had already slipped through my fingers, though I hadn’t realized it at the time.
I was doing this for them, I reminded myself. Every step I took, every sleepless night spent chasing an answer through labyrinths of quantum theory, was for them.
Laure had always believed in me. She had faith in things I could no longer believe in—hope, for one. She teased me about my work, her smile laced with that warmth only she could summon, a smile that softened the edges of the world. “You’ll crack time wide open, Liam,” she’d say with a wink, “but Elsa’s bedtime routine? That’s a mystery you’ll never solve.” I would laugh, or try to, though the joke never quite reached me. Elsa, like Laure, moved through life with a grace I could never fathom.
But tonight, something felt wrong.
The snow outside wasn’t just heavy; it was suffocating. It pressed against the windows as if it were trying to break in, to surround me, to pull me into its frozen, indifferent depths. I rubbed my hands together, a futile attempt to summon warmth into my body. The equations I had been working on were close—so close. And yet, an unmistakable dread hovered at the edge of my thoughts, like a fracture beneath the surface of everything I’d built.
A knock sounded through the room, muffled by the storm.
I stared at the door, my pulse quickening. It was late. Too late for visitors. The roads were impassable. Another knock—louder this time, more insistent.
“Come in,” I called, though the words felt as if they belonged to someone else, as if I were listening to a version of myself that still believed in the ordinary.
The door creaked open, and a man stepped inside. Tall, his long coat trailing along the floor, flecked with snow that clung to him like ghosts. His face was obscured by the dim light and the shifting shadows from the fire, but his eyes—sharp, intense—fixed on mine with unsettling familiarity.
“Professor Schneider,” he said, his voice low, soft, like the crack of ice beneath a heavy foot. “Good evening.”
I didn’t respond at first, a strange unease prickling the back of my neck. “You’re out in this storm?” I asked.
He stepped further into the room, the snow clinging to him, undisturbed. He didn’t shake it off, didn’t seem to notice the cold. He moved with the deliberation of someone who knew exactly why he was here. And that terrified me.
“I heard you were working late,” he said, his voice almost apologetic. “Thought I might stop by.”
There was something in his tone, a depth of knowledge that unnerved me. Something about the way he spoke, as if he already knew every answer, as if my thoughts, laid bare in the pages scattered around me, were as obvious as breathing.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice careful, cautious. “Have we met before?”
The man smiled—a thin, hollow smile, devoid of warmth. He looked down at the papers on my desk, his gaze lingering on the diagrams of entangled particles, on the calculations I had given years of my life to, as though he could see more deeply into them than I ever had.
“You’re working on something remarkable,” he said, more a statement than a question.
A chill crept up my spine, though the fire still burned in the hearth.
“Yes,” I replied slowly, feeling the weight of my own words. “But it’s... complicated.”
The man nodded, his eyes never leaving the notes. “Quantum entanglement. Two particles, separated by infinite distance, bound together by forces that defy locality.”
My pulse quickened. How did he know?
“You seem familiar with my work,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I’ve studied it,” he said simply. “It’s fascinating, really. Two particles influencing each other instantaneously, regardless of distance. As if space—and time—are irrelevant.”
I stared at him, the unease in my chest growing tighter. His words echoed my own private thoughts, ideas I had never shared aloud. He was speaking about them as if they belonged to him, as if he had always known them.
“That’s the idea,” I said, my mind racing. “But it’s not just about space anymore. I believe entanglement can occur across time as well. A measurement made on one particle can influence its pair, even if they exist in different moments.”
He nodded, as if this were no surprise to him, as if it were something we had always known. “So when you measure one, you create an effect, regardless of when the other exists. Cause and effect, collapsed into a single moment. It’s almost as if time bends around them.”
A shiver ran through me, but I forced myself to remain composed.
“Yes,” I replied, my voice growing more certain despite the dread gnawing at the edges of my thoughts. “If we can entangle particles across time, we can connect the past and the future. We can change things.”
The man’s gaze drifted to the window, watching the snow swirl and fall in relentless, suffocating spirals. “But what if the bridge isn’t as simple as you think? What if, by creating that connection, you’re not just linking moments in time, but trapping yourself within them?”
His words struck me like a blow. Trapped.
My throat tightened. I glanced at the fire, the flames flickering weakly in the hearth. Time wasn’t a trap. It was a path—one that could be navigated, controlled. I was on the verge of proving that.
“Trapped?” I echoed; the word foreign in my mouth. I tried to push the growing unease aside. “No. Time can be bent. Shaped. It’s not static.”
The man turned to face me fully now, his expression unreadable, his eyes heavy with something I couldn’t name. “When you measure one particle, the other responds. The outcome is inevitable. You cannot choose otherwise. The effect is locked in place, just as the past is. What happens when you try to manipulate those locked moments?”
The weight of his question hung in the air, thick as the snow outside. I felt my breath catch in my chest. The fire crackled softly, its warmth distant, as if I had already left the room, already left my own body.
“I know the risks,” I said quickly, almost defensively. “But the potential is too great. We can change things. Fix mistakes. Prevent tragedies.”
The man’s eyes darkened, his gaze growing heavier, as though he were seeing through me—through time itself.
“And what if you create those tragedies by trying to prevent them?”
I felt the room closing in around me, the air tightening like a vise. No. That couldn’t be true. The equations were sound. The logic was clear. I could change things. I could save them. I had to.
“Be careful, Professor,” the man said softly, his voice carrying the weight of inevitability. “The snow hides many things.”
He turned and left without another word. The door closed softly behind him, his figure swallowed by the storm. And with him, a shadow seemed to settle over the room—a darkness I couldn’t shake.
I stood there, my thoughts spinning. How had he known? And why did his words feel like an echo from something I couldn’t quite place, as if I had lived through this moment before? The room felt colder, the storm pressing in, but I pushed the unease aside. There’s still time, I told myself. Time isn’t fixed—it can be bent, folded. I just need to make the right calculation.
The phone rang, sharp and sudden, slicing through the silence.
“Laure?”
Her voice trembled through the line, panicked, barely audible over the static of the storm. “Liam—I—there’s ice. I can’t stop—Elsa—she’s in the car, I—”
The line went dead.
For a moment, I stood frozen, the phone slipping from my hand, clattering to the floor. Then, fear surged through me, cold and visceral, and I ran—throwing open the door, plunging into the storm. Snow hammered down from the sky, thick and blinding, swallowing the road, the trees, everything. My feet slipped on the ice, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps as I ran toward the road where Laure would be driving.
In the distance, I saw it—the faint flicker of flames against the blizzard, weak and struggling to stay alive.
My scream was swallowed by the wind as I ran faster, my legs burning with every step. The car was crumpled against a tree, smoke billowing from the hood. Through the shattered window, I could see Elsa’s small hand, pressed against the glass, motionless.
I stumbled, falling into the snow, my body numb with terror as I crawled toward the wreckage.
Then—the explosion.
The blast knocked me backward, a wave of heat searing through the cold, the fire roaring to life, consuming everything. The snow melted in a circle around the wreckage, steam rising into the night as the flames devoured the car.
I lay in the snow, cold, paralyzed, my eyes fixed on the fire.
They were gone.
Snow continued to fall, year after year, covering the world in a relentless, unyielding white. My research was abandoned. The equations, the notebooks, the experiments—all of it locked away, untouched since that night. I drifted through my days in a fog, the weight of my failure too much to bear. It wasn’t just the loss of Laure and Elsa—it was the loss of time itself, the knowledge that I had been helpless in the face of its tide, that I had been swept along, unable to change the course of events.
But then, as I sorted through Laure’s belongings one winter evening, I found it—a letter. A speech she had written for me, tucked away between the pages of a book I hadn’t opened in years. It was faded, the ink smudged in places, but her words were still clear:
To my brilliant husband, the man who never gave up, who never stopped trying to make the impossible possible. I know you, Liam. Even when the world turns cold around you, you will find a way to light it again.
Her final words were underlined twice, as if she had known I would need them more than anything:Liam, you will always find a way.
Her words stirred something deep inside me. A memory of the man I had once been—the man who had believed he could change the world, who had believed that time could be shaped, manipulated. Maybe—just maybe—I could still go back. I could fix it. I could make it right.
It was another snowy night when I completed the machine. Outside, the storm raged, as it had on the night of the accident. The cold gnawed at the windowpanes, the wind howling through the mountains like a beast searching for prey. I stood before the machine, heart pounding, Laure’s letter clutched tightly in my hand.
When I stepped into the machine, I felt an odd calm settle over me. I had been here before, hadn’t I? Time collapsed around me, folded in on itself like crumpled paper, and for a moment, I was lost in the depths of it, untethered from any moment. I could feel myself stretching backward, through years, through seconds. When I emerged, the air was still, the night quieter than it had any right to be. Snow fell softly around me, blanketing the Alps in that familiar silence.
I trudged through the drifts, the cold biting at my bones, as I made my way up the road—the same road Laure’s car had skidded off that night. Past the bend where the accident had happened. My breath billowed out in front of me, clouding the air as I stopped before the house—our house.
But of course, I didn’t have the key.
I knocked.
The door opened slowly, and there I was—my younger self, standing in the doorway, eyes wide with confusion. He didn’t recognize me. Not yet.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice cautious but curious, his brow furrowed as he studied me.
“I... used to work here,” I said, my voice thick with the weight of what I couldn’t say. “Physics. Quantum mechanics. Like you.”
My younger self stepped aside, letting me in, the warmth of the house washing over me, familiar yet distant. From the other room, I could hear Laure’s laughter, mingling with Elsa’s high, bright giggles, and for a moment, I thought I might collapse. But I couldn’t. Not yet.
“Quantum entanglement,” I began, my voice barely more than a whisper. “I know what you’re working on.”
The younger Liam was cautious but intrigued. He followed me into the study, where we stood among the scattered papers, the diagrams, the equations that had consumed my life. Our conversation unfolded as before—entanglement, time, the possibility of connecting moments across decades. But now, standing in the presence of my former self, I could see the truth that had always been hidden from me.
My presence here—this very attempt to change the past—was the reason it had all happened.
The younger Liam, still filled with hope, still clinging to the belief that time could be bent and reshaped, couldn’t see it yet. But I could feel it, pressing down on me like the weight of the storm outside. Time wasn’t a line. It was a loop, tightening with every step I took.
I stood to leave, the weight of realization settling into my bones. The younger Liam watched me go, unaware of the tragedy that had already been set in motion.
Out in the cold once more, I trudged through the snow, the wind biting at my skin. I could see the faint glow of headlights in the distance, nearing the bend in the road where Laure would drive. I knelt by the bend, my hands trembling as I scattered the snow, exposing the slick patch of ice beneath.
Every movement was deliberate, though inside, I was unraveling.
This is wrong.
I swallowed, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts, the cold gnawing at my lungs. I didn’t have to do this. I didn’t.
But the weight of inevitability pressed down on me, relentless. I had already crossed the line. There was no undoing it. I had already done this. I had always done this.
The snow fell heavier now, blurring the edges of the world around me. My heart beat wildly in my chest as the distant headlights grew closer, cutting through the darkness like a knife. I wanted to scream, to stop, but my body moved of its own accord.
No.
The car hit the patch of ice, skidding violently before crashing into the tree. The sound of the impact reverberated through me, a sickening thud that jarred my soul. No, no, no. I wanted to shout, but the wind swallowed my voice. And then—the flames.
I stood frozen, my body numb, as the fire consumed the car. I couldn’t look away. I didn’t want to.
Laure’s voice haunted me in the flames. Her laughter, Elsa’s joy—memories that had once filled me with love now twisted into unbearable grief. I had done this. I had always done this.
What if you create the tragedies by trying to prevent them? the man’s voice whispered in my mind.
As the flames danced in the storm, I realized something terrible.
I wasn’t just responsible for their deaths. I had been the architect of every single moment. By trying to change the past, I had sealed their fate. I had created the very tragedy I sought to undo.
I turned away from the wreckage, the heat of the fire barely touching me. The cold was all that remained.
Very complex... I wonder more and more: who are you, what background do you have? It would be nice to find out a bit more about you.
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