Six years earlier.
[1914]
In an office at the Prussian Academy of Sciences in Berlin, a thirty-five-year-old physicist closed his eyes, searching his mind for an image that might give shape to his theory.
There, within the boundless imagination of humankind, the universe unfurled before him alone—like a fabric whose horizontal and vertical threads were woven from the very essence of space and time.
A living canvas, able to ripple, stretch, or shrink beneath the weight of what it carried: moons, planets, suns… and even structures so immense they lay beyond the reach of his era's astronomy.
"The curvature… it must depend on mass…" he whispered in German. And still with his eyes shut, he let the chalk glide in his hand, tracing what he saw: an equation that could render such grandeur into mere numbers and symbols.
But then—he sensed it.
His shadow, cast upon the blackboard, began to darken. He turned, puzzled, and saw the sunlight pouring through the windows intensify with startling speed, until it blazed so fiercely it seared the eyes.
The scent of cold coffee, the equations on the board, the furniture, even Berlin itself beyond the windows… all of it began to fade, until in the span of a single blink—
The light engulfed him.
-
When his vision cleared…
'This… this is certainly not Berlin', was the first thought of the disoriented physicist.
Even as his rational mind struggled to give meaning to what his eyes beheld.
Beneath his feet stretched a transparent floor, crystalline as glass, offering no reassurance—for each step felt as though he were treading on air.
Walls of mist rose all around, their pale veil hiding the distant outline of an impossible city, grander than any tale of fantasy.
Slender towers seemed carved from pure light; arches unfolded like outstretched wings; domes and columns pulsed with silvery radiance, flickering through the fog.
The sight was breathtaking—yet it carried with it the unsettling sense of being watched, almost judged.
The physicist brought a hand to his chin, like a thinker carved in stone, fascinated as he recognized fragments of golden runes and symbols shimmering into being, then fading away within the mist. They reminded him of the ancient Hebrew his grandmother had taught him as a child. Rusted in memory, yet never forgotten.
But a nearby sob broke his analytical reverie.
His gaze shifted to the hundred or so people gathered around him: men and women of all ages, dress, and complexion. Every one of them bore the same expression of bewilderment—like castaways thrown upon an unknown shore.
Given the strangeness of their predicament, it seemed only natural to the physicist that many clutched their medals, crucifixes, or other sacred tokens, whispering their prayers with trembling fervor.
Following the sound of the weeping, he found a boy of about seven, curled upon the ground.
In that small figure he saw his own son. The physicist's body reacted before his brilliant mind could, kneeling beside him and asking in the softest voice he could manage, in German:
"Are you all right?"
The boy lifted his tear-filled eyes and answered between hiccups:
"No, sir… the lights at home grew so bright… and now I don't know where my parents are!" His words tumbled out in panic—the pure terror of a child who could not find the one comfort that might ease the strangeness of this place.
"Easy, easy," he said, trying to calm him, gently resting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "What's your name?"
Stammering, the boy replied: "Robert—Robert Oppenheimer."
A smile, almost paternal, crossed the physicist's face. "Pleased to meet you, Robert. I am Al-"
'Al' couldn't finish. When a female voice cut him short: "Albert! … So, you are here as well."
The physicist lifted his gaze; his eyes widened at once, filled with both relief and surprise—the same expression reflected in the wrinkled face of the woman approaching him with the aid of a cane.
Though they had shared only a brief conversation in a scientific compendium, the presence of the renowned Nobel laureate steadied Albert as he rose once more.
"Madame Curie, I too am glad to see you… despite these strange circumstances."
Marie offered a faint smile before turning her gaze toward the boy beside him.
"And who is this little friend of yours? Surely not your son Hans!?"
"No!" Albert answered too sharply, the thought of his own child in such a place tightening his chest. Drawing a breath, he continued with calmer tone: "He… I hope is still at home. This is Robert."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Robert," said Marie with maternal warmth.
"Mm," the boy managed, rubbing his eyes, his sobs subsiding as he felt a little less alone.
Before they could continue, an elderly man with a neatly trimmed white beard turned toward them at the sound of their names.
"Forgive the interruption, but I could not help overhearing," said the newcomer, inclining his head slightly toward Marie.
"Madame Curie, you may not remember me, but more than fifteen years ago I had the honor of exchanging a few letters with you and your late husband, regarding the possible use of radium as a contrast agent in the study of neurons."
Marie arched an eyebrow, a faint nostalgic smile touching her lips.
"If I recall correctly, Santiago… my reply was: do not use it."
Deeply moved that she remembered, the old man lowered his head. "It is a pleasure to meet you in person after all these years."
Albert observed the exchange with genuine curiosity. Marie, sensing his interest, turned toward him and the boy beside him.
"Professor Einstein, Robert—allow me to introduce you to the brilliant anatomist and Nobel Prize laureate in Medicine: Santiago Ramón y Cajal."
To meet the father of neuroscience—another Nobel laureate—even in so strange a place, Albert extended his hand with admiration.
"It is an honor to meet you."
"The honor is mine, Professor," Santiago replied with a faint smile, though his round spectacles could not quite hide the somber cast of his gaze as it drifted toward the mysterious realm into which they had all been taken against their will.
Then, realizing something fundamental, Marie's brow furrowed.
"Wait a moment…" she said, glancing from Albert to Santiago. "In what language are we speaking?"
Visibly confused, Santiago answered instinctively: "In Spanish, of course."
Folding his arms as he grasped Marie's concern, Albert murmured thoughtfully: "In German."
Both of them turned toward Robert. "In English?" the boy replied, though with a trace of doubt, as if no longer sure what language he was even speaking.
Applying the scientific method to investigate this strange phenomenon, Albert gently took hold of the arm of the first passerby.
A dark-skinned man with an impeccably tied turban, who at that moment was studying intently the glowing runes that adorned the "walls."
"What are you doing?!" the man demanded, his voice deep and filled with distrust.
Einstein raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture.
"My apologies, I merely wished to test something. Could you tell me your name?"
The man regarded him with caution before replying:
"I am Muhammad Iqbal. What is it you seek?"
"Only to ask you one question: in what language are you speaking—and in what language do you hear me?"
Though he had not spoken to anyone else, Muhammad quickly grasped the point of such questions, surprised at the perfection of what he perceived as his own Arabic—or at least, hearing it as such…
"In Arabic, naturally," he answered warily. "Yet given your appearance and the nature of your inquiry, I am certain you are speaking to me in another tongue. And still… we understand each other without effort."
Einstein nodded instead of answering, while Santiago—who had been listening with great interest—spoke up in a deep voice: "This reminds me of the biblical story of the Tower of Babel."
Marie, watching the rest of the crowd—people from every corner and culture of the world—let out a sigh that carried both exhaustion and wonder, before offering her own conclusion:
"Whatever this place may be... it seems there are no language barriers."
There was no time for further "theories," for a celestial chorus rose out of nowhere and everywhere at once—deep, resonant—as though the entire dimension itself were speaking.
"Welcome, my creation."