by Adam J. Brunner

Carl Jung once said, “The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.” I don’t know how true that is—chemistry has never been my strongest field—but for me, it began simply, as such things often do. It was a chance meeting, though not on a bus or in line at the grocery store. No, my chance meeting occurred in the laboratory as I experimented on the vibrational harmonics of strings across quantum dimensions. You know—the usual sort of thing, at least for a theoretical physicist.

You have to understand: my work never allowed time for a personal life. I never much minded the lonely dinners or empty beds. My work was all that mattered. It was important, you see. I was working to test the very fabric of reality itself. I had the potential to prove the existence of a quantum multiverse—a theory even Einstein only guessed at. The university, of course, was more skeptical. They always are. Every year I found myself with less funding and less help. Eventually, I was reduced to one graduate student: Callie.

She’s pleasant enough, but I’ve seen lab rats with more developed mental capacity. Mostly, I relegated her to standing in the corner and handing me things. I once trusted her to analyze particle collision data, but the only particles she found were the crumbs of potato chips still clinging to her fingers. She ruined the results.

Suffice it to say, I often sent Callie home early so I could concentrate on real work. It was during one of those late-night tests that I first noticed the smell: lilacs. They had been my mother’s favorite, always reminding me of happy childhood days. As you can imagine, I was startled. My lab is a fully controlled clean room—barring any Callie-related incidents—and that’s precisely what I assumed I’d encountered.

The smell was faint and vanished almost immediately before I could locate its source. I ruled out Callie, whose personal aroma tended to alternate between pizza and a rather pungent narcotic. I chalked the experience up to olfactory recall, a trick of memory born from long hours of work and fatigue.

But then it happened again.

While running the same experiment—testing subatomic string harmonics in search of a convergent point between dimensions—I detected the lilac scent once more. This time it lingered for a full fifty-seven point two seconds. Over the next week, I recorded three more instances during the same experiment. This was no coincidence or memory lapse. I found that the more power I fed into the system, the longer the scent remained.

After a week of these occurrences, I resolved to push the resonance to full power. That’s when I heard it: Springsteen—Thunder Road, specifically. I was certain. That album had carried me through the lonely days of high school and comforted me during long undergraduate nights at MIT as I contemplated the majesty of the universe.

Like the lilac scent, the music only lasted a few seconds. Faint enough, perhaps, to be mistaken for echoes from a distant radio. But I recorded it nonetheless. This phenomenon, however, was far less predictable than the lilac. The music wasn’t always present—and when it was, sometimes it was a different song, though always equally familiar.

For three weeks, I continued my experiments, meticulously adjusting the harmonic frequencies and energy levels. More often than not, nothing happened. But occasionally, I captured new sounds: garbled voices, gusts of inexplicable air movement, even flashes of color—orange and red, like fire at first glance, but quickly resolving into shimmering hues, as if seen through fogged glass.

By the fifth week, I had isolated the parameters of my most successful tests. Using that data, I constructed a specialized box no larger than a toaster. Callie was there when I placed an apple inside. Upon activation, the apple was instantly atomized.

Disheartened doesn’t begin to cover it. All my careful planning had led to destruction. Perhaps, I mused bitterly, I could market it as a waste management solution. But then something miraculous happened. The next morning, the box was no longer empty. Instead, a small piece of paper lay inside. On it were five words: “Thanks for the apple.”

I immediately accused Callie of playing a prank. I threw her out of the lab and stewed over what I was sure was a hoax. Yet the following day, another note appeared: “Day 61: No reply yet from the box. Received apple appeared in pieces. Hypothesis: letter was similarly broken down upon transport. I must conduct further tests.” The note ended with a mathematical formula—one uncannily similar to my own.

Callie could not have written that. She simply didn’t possess the capacity for such an elaborate deception. The letter was genuine.

I scribbled a reply: “Received research notes. I concur with your analysis.” The latter part I added half-jokingly, still unsure what to believe.

Yet the next day, a new letter arrived, filled with advanced formulas and expanded theories on dimensional string harmonics. Incorporating her insights into my own, I refined my designs for the box. At the bottom of my next note, I added an addendum: “Who are you? Where are you?”

The response was astonishing. She called herself Clara. She included coordinates—coordinates nearly identical to my own. If accurate, it meant she occupied the same physical location, only in a parallel dimension. The implications were staggering. Clara confirmed my suspicions and agreed with my working hypothesis.

Thus began our collaboration. For the next four months, we exchanged research and refined our ability to transmit objects through the dimensional barrier. But inevitably, we spoke of more than just science. We grew curious about each other’s worlds. Clara’s was much like ours, but without the violence and hostility. Humanity had embraced reason, compassion, and science.

Her descriptions filled me with a quiet shame for my own world. I must admit I edited my responses, omitting certain unsavory truths about humanity’s darker tendencies. A selfish act, perhaps. I didn’t want her to think less of me—as though I were some primitive, barbaric throwback.

During this time, Clara sent two photographs. The first showed her in a sunlit field, perhaps on a picnic. There was no caption. I was struck by her beauty—like a model pulled from a magazine. Light lavender hair, sky-blue eyes, freckles on her nose, dimples that deepened when she smiled.

I, of course, sent a photo in return. It took me hours to find the right lighting, the best angle. I am not unattractive, but certainly not remarkable. I took several shots, removing my glasses, adjusting my smile just enough to hide my overbite, carefully angling to conceal my mole. Callie even assisted, offering grooming advice.

The second photo Clara sent was more private. I won’t describe its contents, but suffice it to say: it was as much for science as for any other purpose. You won’t find that photo among my research. It remains a personal memento.

After this, our relationship grew deeply personal. While we still discussed research, most of our letters became intimate exchanges. We discovered shared interests, beliefs, and parallel upbringings. I had never encountered anyone like her—and, in truth, I still haven’t. It was as though she always knew exactly what I needed to hear. On day one hundred and six, I confessed my love. Clara returned the sentiment on day one hundred and eight.

My days grew lighter. I whistled while I worked. My tolerance for Callie improved. She even helped me compose my letters, offering insight into how best to express my feelings. We would sit for hours polishing each note, striving for perfection. I came to realize I had underestimated her. In matters of the heart, she possessed surprising wisdom.

Yet, alongside my happiness, a quiet desperation grew. I wanted more than letters and pictures. So Clara and I began constructing a larger transmission chamber. Expanding its size proved exponentially more complex—the larger the chamber, the more atoms involved, and the more difficult it became to stabilize the transfer. Paper and graphite had slipped through with ease; living tissue posed far greater challenges.

Callie and I spent six more months completing and testing the larger device. Even then, success was sporadic. Simple organisms passed through unharmed, but more complex lifeforms fared poorly. Finally, on day three hundred and twenty-two, I arrived in the lab to find a live chicken and a note from Clara explaining how she had stabilized her own system. Elated, I quickly implemented her modifications. We successfully returned the chicken back through what we had come to call the rift.

I knew then that my reunion with Clara was within reach. I began preparations to leave my world behind. It took another week to calibrate the machine for human transport. No one else could go—not Callie, certainly not Clara herself. It had to be me. I informed Clara of my decision. We would finally be together.

But on day three hundred and thirty-eight, Callie grew hesitant. She pleaded with me to reconsider, insisting the machine was simply an incinerator, that it destroyed rather than transported. She accused me of chasing a fantasy.

In desperation, she lied. She claimed she had written all the notes—that it had begun as a prank and spiraled out of control. She said she was Clara. And then, most absurd of all, she confessed that she had fallen in love with me.

I knew her words were lies. She is not the woman I love. She is a frightened girl, jealous of my bond with Clara, trying to stop me out of misguided concern—or selfishness. I do not care which. My future is not with Callie. My future is with Clara.

Even now, as I write these words, Callie has gone to fetch security. Soon, they will try to stop me. I must hurry. My time grows short. This note will be my final record in this world. But do not mourn me. I go to a better place, to the woman I love. I have endured my prison long enough. If you are reading this, I have already stepped into the machine. I am already happy. I bid this world farewell.

To Callie: I do not blame you. You were loyal and good. Perhaps in another life, things might have been different. I hope you find happiness, as I have found mine. But what I do now, I do on faith—guided by love.

For, as Einstein once said: “Not everything that counts can be counted. Not everything that can be counted counts.”