Chapter 1: 1967 - Paul (main timeline)

It first happened in November. It was early in the evening on a Monday. The Parisian evening air, usually vibrant and alive, felt strangely muted as I settled deeper into the armchair. Rain lashed against the tall windows. Marie, my wife, was resting on the chaise-longue opposite me, a half-finished symphony of colour resting on an easel beside her. Marie had a workshop, but the apartment was still cluttered with her work, paintings spilling from the easel onto every available surface. She didn't leave work in the studio; it permeated our lives, always present, a tangible echo of her restless spirit. Zoe, our vibrant four-year old, was drawing beside me. I, however, was consumed by my science readings, meticulously detailed in the copy of Nature I held. 1967, a year of scientific revolutions, had unfolded with a relentless pace, and tonight, I found myself caught in its intellectual whirlwind.

The article I was reading detailed the monumental work at CERN, the collision of subatomic particles in their newly-commissioned synchrotrons. It spoke of the Standard Model, a nascent framework seeking to unify the fundamental forces of nature, and of the tantalising rumors of a Higgs boson, a particle whose existence, if proven, would lend weight to the concept of the Higgs field, a fundamental fabric of the universe itself. The implications, the sheer audacity of these explorations was thrilling. To peer into the heart of matter, to unravel the cosmic tapestry thread by thread, felt like holding the universe itself in the palm of one's hand. It was humbling, exhilarating, and terrifying all at once.

Then I moved on to an article explaining Burnell's discovery of pulsars, these celestial lighthouses emitting beams of radiation with uncanny regularity. The rhythmic pulses, emanating from collapsed stars, were a cosmic metronome, a testament to the universe's intricate and often incomprehensible mechanisms. It was as if the cosmos itself was speaking in a language of precise intervals, a celestial Morse code waiting to be deciphered. The thought of these enigmatic objects, remnants of once-mighty stars, blinking their secrets across unimaginable distances, filled me with a profound sense of awe.

These weren't mere scientific breakthroughs; they were also philosophical pronouncements. We, as mere specks of cosmic dust, were reaching out, probing the infinite, and in doing so, were reshaping our perception of our place in the universe. It was a heady cocktail of intellectual ferment and existential contemplation, leaving me restless and strangely introspective. I have always admired our human ingenuity and our insatiable yearning to understand the grand design. I have always loved theoretical physics and found myself drawn to the hallowed halls of academia in pursuit of unraveling the universe's deepest secrets. My fascination with the elegant frameworks of theoretical physics blossomed during my formative years mentored in the Sorbonne's Paris VI. Armed with a doctorate earned with distinction, I embarked on a peripatetic journey, seeking collaborations and honing my research at institutions across Europe. Fate intervened in 1960, when the Sorbonne extended an irresistible invitation back home. Their pioneering spirit in theoretical cosmology precisely aligned with my own research trajectory. Thus, I accepted the professorship. 

The world outside, with its rain-swept streets and distant echoes of Parisian life, seemed distant as I was immersed into my reading. Marie, her emerald eyes still holding the luminescence of a the setting sun, smiled faintly and stretched, her hand instinctively reaching for the canvas beside her. As I sat there, lost in thought amidst this tapestry of domesticity, something inexplicable occurred. For an instant - no longer than a heartbeat yet eternity within that brief span - Zoe was not quite herself. She looked the same; her angel face still bore those rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes. Yet, she seemed... different. An odd sensation washed over me, like trying to grasp smoke with bare hands.

Marie too appeared altered, though in no discernible way either. It was as if I were viewing them through a prism that refracted their essence into something subtly shifted yet familiar. The change was fleeting; before my eyes could fully comprehend it, they returned to normalcy.

"Did you see that?" I asked, turning towards Marie with an urgency born of confusion.

She looked at me quizzically, her brows furrowing slightly. "See what?"

"The... the change," I stammered, feeling foolish even as I spoke. How could one describe such a phenomenon? It was like trying to capture moonlight in a jar - impossible and absurd.

Marie shook her head gently, smiling at me with that tender patience she reserved for my occasional bouts of eccentricity. "I didn't notice anything unusual," she said softly. Her gaze flicked towards Zoe, who continued drawing obliviously, unaware of the strange interlude we'd just shared - or not shared, apparently.

A cold tendril of fear coiled around my heart as I realized that perhaps only I had witnessed this peculiar occurrence. Was it a trick of light? A momentary lapse in sanity? Or something far more sinister?

I am a man of science, yet here I was grappling with an enigma that defied explanation. Perhaps it was merely my hypochondriac tendencies rearing their ugly head once more? After all, hadn't I convinced myself last year that the slight tremor in my hand was a sign of early-onset Parkinson's disease? It had taken Dr. Henri's firm diagnosis of 'nerves' to set me straight.

Yet this felt different; it wasn't merely physical symptoms plaguing me but something far more intangible yet no less unsettling. A shift in reality, however brief, was not easily dismissed as mere fancy or fear.

As I watched Marie and Zoe - now seemingly untouched by the strange interlude - my heart ached with an intensity that caught me off guard. It was love, yes, but also something else; a profound sense of loss for something never truly possessed. Like gazing at a beautiful sunset through frosted glass, knowing it could be so much more vibrant if only one could remove the barrier.

That night, as I lay awake beside Marie, listening to her steady breathing and Zoe's soft snores from down the hall, I found myself grappling with questions that had no answers. Was it my mind playing tricks on me? And as I drifted off to sleep, haunted by images of altered faces and shifting realities, I couldn't shake the feeling that I stood at a precipice - teetering on the edge of something unknown and scary.

I woke with a sense of weariness that seemed to permeate my very bones. The city was just beginning to stir outside our apartment window, and Marie's gentle humming as she prepared Zoe for school did little to rouse me from my fatigue.

"Papa," Zoe said, her tiny hand patting my cheek, "you look tired." Her eyes, so like Marie's, were filled with concern. I managed a smile and ruffled her hair.

"It's just the excitement of teaching" I replied, though even to me it sounded unconvincing. The truth was, I hadn't slept well at all.

Marie kissed us both goodbye at the door, her eyes lingering on mine for a moment longer than usual. "Are you sure you're alright?" she asked softly. I nodded and forced another smile before heading out with Zoe in tow.

The drive to Zoe's school was uneventful, save for my daughter's chatter about her latest drawing - a 'family portrait' featuring stick figures with exaggerated smiles. As I watched her skip into the building, hand clasped by her teacher, I felt a pang of longing. If only life could remain as simple and uncomplicated as it was in Zoe's world.

My university office was a sanctuary from the bustling city outside - filled with books, chalkboards scrawled with equations, and the faint scent of old parchment. Thomas, my colleague and friend since our student days, was already there when I arrived.

"Ah, Paul," he greeted me warmly, "just in time to meet our new prodigy." He gestured towards a young woman standing by the window, her blonde hair catching the sunlight like a halo. She turned as we approached, revealing eyes that sparkled with intelligence and curiosity.

"This is Dr. Anya Jesperes," Thomas said, "she's joining us from CERN."

"Enchanté, Dr. Jesperes," I said, extending my hand. Her grip was firm, her smile disarming.

"The pleasure is mine, Professor," she replied, her voice like music. "I've read so much about your work"

We fell into an easy conversation about string theory and the nature of reality - topics that usually invigorated me but today left me feeling oddly unsettled. As Anya spoke passionately about her research at CERN, I found myself distracted by a faint shimmer in my peripheral vision.

It was subtle, barely noticeable if one wasn't looking for it. But there it was - reality shifting again, like the first time yesterday evening. My heart pounded in my chest as I struggled to maintain composure.

"...Professor?" Anya's voice brought me back to the present. She looked at me with concern, her brow furrowed. "Are you alright? You seem troubled."

I hesitated before answering honestly, "It's just...a bit of a headache." A poor excuse, but it was all I could manage under the circumstances.

Thomas clapped me on the shoulder. "You've been staying up too late again, too much wine..." he said jovially.

I managed a weak laugh. I needed answers - to understand what was happening to me before it consumed every aspect of my life.

As the day wore on, I found myself unable to focus on anything but those strange shifts in reality. They came more frequently now, each one lasting longer than the last. By the time Marie and Zoe returned home that evening, I felt like a stranger in my own body - let alone my own house.

"Papa?" Zoe asked tentatively as she climbed onto my lap at dinner. "Why are you looking so sad?"

I forced another smile for her sake but couldn't bring myself to answer truthfully. Instead, I changed the subject and listened intently as Marie regaled us with tales from her workshop - anything to distract me from the growing unease within.

Later that night, after Zoe had been tucked into bed and Marie was lost in one of her art books, I found myself staring at my reflection in our bedroom mirror. The man looking back at me seemed familiar yet distant; a stranger wearing my face like a mask.

What was happening to me? Was this some sort of breakdown brought on by stress or lack of sleep?