"Everywhere," I said, and my voice came from the ceiling, the floor, the walls, and the back of her own mind.
But the portal was hungry. It didn't just show the present. It began to rotate.
I saw myself at eight years old, from the perspective of the birthday cake candles—melting, brief, adored. I saw myself at sixty, from the vantage of my own hospital bed’s railings—cold, patient, waiting. The portal showed me the full sphere of my existence: every triumph from the angle of my failures, every loss from the angle of what I would gain tomorrow. portal 360
My wife found me on the third day, sitting cross-legged in front of the shimmer. "You're disappearing," she said. I turned to look at her—really look, with just my two flawed, human eyes. And for a split second, I saw her through the portal’s periphery: from the angle of the first time we met, and the angle of the last time we would ever fight, and the angle of her tears at a funeral that hadn't happened yet.
You are already standing in the center of a sphere you cannot see. "Everywhere," I said, and my voice came from
The scientists were baffled. Unlike any theoretical wormhole, this aperture didn't lead to another galaxy or a parallel dimension. It led here . Exactly here. But from every angle at once.
"Where are you?" she whispered, though I was right in front of her. It began to rotate
When I stood in front of it, I didn't see a reflection. I saw the back of my own head. I saw the dust motes floating behind my left ear. I saw the expression on my face from the perspective of the houseplant in the corner. The portal didn't show a single point of view; it collapsed every possible perspective into a single, dizzying sphere of vision.