“I would like to thank all of my colleagues for their support. I never imagined that I would be standing here today. As a child, I always loved physics. Receiving this prize would have been a dream for the ten-year-old me. Back then, if you told me that I would be standing here today, well I would not have even believed I would visit Sweden.”

The words felt hollow as I spoke them.

"This prize, our research, it is everything to all of us. But what is more than everything to us, is the people our discoveries will help."

More empty words.

This is the Nobel Prize, the pinnacle of a scientist’s career. The honor I’ve chased my entire life. Yet, here I stand, and all I can feel is… nothing. Not because I doubt my worth—I know I’ve earned this. But the thrill of discovery, the sheer joy of peeling back the layers of the universe, has been replaced with boardrooms, budgets, and bureaucrats.

It’s no longer about asking bold questions or pursuing impossible ideas. Now it’s just business. Everything is politics: meetings, proposals, funding pitches. The people with the power don’t care about knowledge—they care about numbers, about the next marketable idea. This award? It’s no longer a symbol of discovery; it’s a symbol of compromise.

“I would also like to thank the committee for this award,” I added, my voice practiced, polite. “I can only imagine how difficult it must have been to choose between such talented researchers. I am deeply grateful for your recognition.”

The audience applauded as I stepped away from the podium, the weight of my medal in my hand. Once, I would have seen this as a symbol of triumph. Now, I saw it for what it really was: a token of a system I no longer believed in.

"I... I’m tired." I mutter to myself, almost silent.

As I walked off the stage, my thoughts drifted to the cash prize. A decade ago, I would have funneled every cent into an ambitious experiment, the kind of work that made my heart race with excitement. But now? Those days were long past. The money would go straight into my investment account.

Hours later, as I waited at the airport terminal, I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. Maybe I was being too cynical. According to the tabloids, I’m the “smartest man in the world.” Not that anyone reads those anymore. Still, it wasn’t a bad title to carry while lounging in a Swedish airport, for a trans-continental flight.

My suitcase sat at my feet, packed lightly for the weekend, stuffed with my medal in between my underwear and toiletries.

No one had recognized me in the airport. I wasn’t surprised. It was predictable really, and almost as sad as it was amusing. People cared less about science than I had hoped.

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I wandered to a nearby shop, searching for snacks to bring home. I wanted to find that smelly canned fish—what was it called? Su-something?—but unsurprisingly, they didn’t stock it at the airport. It was probably for the best. My dad would appreciate a joke about Swedish Fish, though, so I grabbed a pack before heading back to my gate.

“First-class passengers?” the attendant called.

That’s me. Perks of being the smartest man in the world, I guess.

Settling into my smooth leather seat, I stretched out with a sigh. I settled into my seat, nice and reclinable, I should get some sleep, I am in my late 40s, so I am practically an old man right? Well I hope not, but it is a good excuse to take a nap whenever I want.

At first, my mind wandered—back to the award, to the ten-year-old version of myself who would have been ecstatic at the thought of all this. That boy had dreamed of understanding the universe. He hadn’t cared about fame, funding, or politics. He just wanted to know something, anything more than he already did.

What had happened to him?

The thought followed me into sleep.

I slowly drift until I am fully unconscious. I do not know what is in my sleep, it seems... like pitch black? No, that would be filled with black. It is more akin to the lack of anything, a void, nothing.

Strangely, it wasn’t frightening. But it was not joy either, not anger. I was as filled with emotions as this place was full. I was content, something I do not think I have ever been, but I do not dislike it.

It am calm, I wonder if this is what true happiness is, balance.

The calm didn’t last.

I awoke with a jolt as the plane shook violently. My seatbelt dug into my chest, and the cabin was filled with screams and the crash of falling luggage.

“This is your captain speaking,” the pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. “We’ve encountered a severe storm. Please remain calm as we prepare for an emergency landing.”

Around me, chaos reigned. Children cried, passengers prayed, and voices rose in panic. I sat frozen, my thoughts racing back to the void in my dream.

Is this what the dream was for? The promise of death? Of nothing? A glimpse into what will come? If that is the case, then I would like to open it with wide arms. I cannot believe I am trusting my life in the hands of the belief of the afterlife, that was assumed from a vague dream, however I have not been a man of science for a long time, this is just the logical next step.

I leaned back, closing my eyes again. Whatever came next, I was ready. If this was my end, maybe it was a chance to start again.

I took one breath.

Then another.

And then… stillness.

No children, no praying, no shaking.

When I opened my eyes, everything had changed.

The sterile cabin was gone, replaced by soft red silk beneath me. I blinked, sitting up slowly. Stone walls surrounded me, the kind you’d expect in an old medieval castle. A faint breeze fluttered the edges of a wooden door, and golden light filtered through a small window.

I ran a hand over the sheets. Real silk. Too soft to be a dream.

“What the—” I froze mid-sentence, my voice echoing in the still room.

I wasn’t on a plane.

I wasn’t even on Earth.