Professor Daniel Hartman was a brilliant man—a renowned lecturer in quantum physics, with a mind sharp enough to unravel the universe’s deepest mysteries. His students admired him, his colleagues respected him, and academia celebrated him.

But at home, his world was different.

His wife, me, was kind-hearted and loving, but my mind worked slowly. I struggled with simple calculations, forgot names easily, and often needed things explained multiple times. Where Daniel saw complex equations, I saw only confusion.

One evening, as Daniel graded papers, I sat beside him, knitting clumsily. "Daniel," I said hesitantly, "what’s… um… what’s that word for when things are really, really small but also really important?"

"Quantum?" he guessed, smiling.