Two days after the lecture.
Ankon stood outside Professor Hasan's office, cigarette half-burned between his fingers. The hallway was empty—most students had already left campus. He'd been standing there for ten minutes, trying to find the courage to knock.
What if he thinks I'm insane?
He knocked anyway.
"Come in," a tired voice called from inside.
Professor Hasan looked up from his stack of papers, surprised to see anyone this late. "Ankon? What brings you here?"
Ankon closed the door behind him, stayed standing. "That lecture. About the timelines. The portal theory."
The professor leaned back in his chair, curious. "You actually paid attention to that?"
"I need to know..." Ankon's voice was steadier than he expected. "How would someone build it? In real life. Without a lab. Theoretically."
Professor Hasan studied him for a long moment. "Why?"
"Does it matter?"
The professor sighed, gesturing to the chair. "Sit."
Ankon sat.
"Theoretically," Professor Hasan began, choosing his words carefully, "you'd need three core components. First: a power source capable of generating massive electromagnetic fields. We're talking thousands of volts, sustained over time."
Ankon pulled out a crumpled notebook, started writing.
"Second: a containment structure. Something to focus and stabilize the energy—essentially, you'd need to create a standing wave, a resonance chamber. The shape matters. Sacred geometry, some call it. A specific dimensional ratio."
"Like what?" Ankon asked, pen hovering.
"Imagine a circle within a square within a triangle. The golden ratio—1.618. That frequency appears throughout nature, throughout quantum mechanics. It's the language reality speaks."
Ankon wrote faster.
"Third, and this is the impossible part..." The professor leaned forward. "You'd need to calculate the exact resonance frequency of the timeline you want to connect to. That requires quantum computing power we don't have. Without that frequency, you're just generating noise."
"What if..." Ankon looked up. "What if you could feel it? The frequency. Instead of calculating it."
Professor Hasan frowned. "Feel it?"
"Like... intuition. Resonance between souls, not just between particles."
The professor was quiet for a moment. Then: "Quantum entanglement does suggest that consciousness plays a role in collapsing wave functions. If two versions of the same consciousness exist in different timelines... theoretically, they might resonate naturally. But that's not science. That's philosophy. Faith, almost."
"But it's possible."
"Theoretically." Professor Hasan's expression softened. "Ankon... why are you asking me this?"
Ankon stood, pocketing his notebook. "Because I have nothing left to lose."
He left before the professor could respond.
Three weeks later.
Ankon's room looked like a madman's workshop.
Wires everywhere. Salvaged electronics from the scrap market—old transformers, capacitors pulled from broken TVs, coils of copper wire he'd stolen from construction sites. His walls were covered in calculations, drawn in marker, corrected, redrawn.
The golden ratio circled over and over: 1.618.
He'd built the frame from bamboo and metal—a circular structure, two meters wide, inscribed within a square base. The triangle came from the way he'd arranged the electromagnetic coils, pointing inward at exactly 60-degree angles.
It looked insane.
It probably was insane.
But he couldn't stop.
First attempt: Failed.
He'd wired the power supply wrong. The moment he switched it on, sparks flew, the lights in his building went out, and his mother screamed from downstairs.
"ANKON! WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP THERE?!"
"NOTHING, MA!"
He sat in the dark, smoke rising from the melted wires, and wanted to cry.
This is stupid. I'm stupid.
But he didn't stop.
Second attempt: Failed.
This time, the power held. The coils hummed. Energy built in the air, making his skin prickle. For one beautiful moment, he thought he saw something—a shimmer, like heat waves, in the center of the frame.
Then the transformer exploded.
He threw it against the wall.
Third attempt: Failed.
Fourth attempt: Failed.
Fifth attempt: Also Failed.
His hands were burned. His savings were gone. His mother threatened to kick him out if he caused one more power outage.
Billie came by once, saw the chaos, and asked: "Bro, what the fuck are you doing?"
"Leaving," Ankon said simply.
"Leaving where?"
"Somewhere better."
Billie didn't understand. Nobody did.
Sixth attempt.
Ankon sat on the floor, exhausted, staring at the frame. Everything was connected. The power was stable. The geometry was right. The frequency generator—a janky combination of salvaged oscillators—was set to 1.618 kHz, matching the golden ratio.
But nothing happened.
He closed his eyes.
Maybe the professor was right. Maybe you can't calculate your way there. Maybe you have to feel it.
He thought about the pain. The betrayals. The stolen years. The loneliness.
He thought about wanting to disappear.
To respawn.
To start over.
Please.
He opened his eyes.
The frame was glowing.
