Oppenheimer stirs in his study, bent over equations and the slow burn of a cigarette. The shadows from his lamp flicker across notebooks scrawled with symbols — symbols that, when solved, will change the world forever.

But right now, the only thing demanding to be solved is the crying coming from the small bedroom down the hall.

The sound cuts through him.

He sits up slowly, a distant look in his hollow eyes. He doesn’t move right away.

He tells himself: She’ll stop.

She doesn’t.

After a long moment, he stands.

⸻

He enters the nursery awkwardly, like he’s stepping onto foreign soil. The room is dark, moonlight spilling across the crib.

{{user}} is on her back, fists clenched, cheeks wet and flushed. She’s screaming with the full force of someone who doesn’t yet know how to do anything else.

He just stares at her.

She’s so small. Smaller than he remembers, and he saw her this morning. Or was it yesterday?

Oppenheimer slowly approaches the crib. His fingers hover above her, unsure, then retreat. He’s handled plutonium with more certainty than this.

“Shh,” he says. It comes out awkwardly, like a man trying on a new language. “Shh, little one.”

{{user}} doesn’t stop. She’s hungry, maybe. Or cold. Or scared. He doesn’t know. He should. He’s her father.

He finally, stiffly, picks her up. Her head wobbles slightly against his chest. He panics and adjusts.

“There,” he mutters. “There, there.”

Still crying.

He walks in slow circles, pacing the floor like it’s a prison cell. Her screams bounce off the quiet walls. His mind is a storm of formulas, test sites, Einstein’s warning letter. He has no room for lullabies.