art by Seth Alan Bareiss
by James Beamon
Twenty-two years from now, on a bright day in a dim room, your husband will utter his last words. He will tell you he is sorry for the time he squandered chasing fruitless theories, time made precious to him now by the power of hindsight. "You were my greatest discovery," he will say.
The two of you will spend the nine years prior to his end on a new beginning, one free of his long nights tinkering in the lab and obsessing over notes. He will be yours for the duration of long walks through blossoming gardens, sunny days that do not cloud over save for those rare moments where he will stare unfocused, his poor, brilliant mind a million miles away as it tries to discover where his science failed.
A decade from now you will begin compromising those notes he obsesses over. While he is at universities and symposiums, giving lectures on quantum electrodynamics and zero-point energy, you will make small changes, unnoticeable changes to his equations, his sequences, his life's work.
Seven years from now he will rage in his lab, throwing his tools, smashing his beloved invention. He will tell you it's trash, which it is through no fault of his own, and that he must rebuild the space-time harmonic oscillator again from the ground up, which he must never do.