coherence time

In the first moments after the Big Bang, the universe resembled a boiling cauldron. According to one hypothesis, dark matter, the invisible substance that holds galaxies together, could have been born there.

The quantum world is like a kitchen where particles suddenly appear out of "nothing." But you need a chef — a classical field acting as an external source. Glauber's theorem, long known in optics, has now been generalized: it shows exactly how the field "cooks up" particles, be they photons or gravitons.

A gravitational wave from a black hole merger is like a bell tolling in the night. The loudness tells you how far away the source is. But to learn how fast the night itself, the cosmos, is expanding, you usually need a second signal: a flash of light or a catalog of galaxies. Both are rare to catch.

A noisy café. You're trying to make out two quiet conversations: one from the table by the window (black hole mergers), the other a barely audible whisper from the far corner (echoes of the universe's birth). But the hiss of the espresso machine and street noise (detector jitter) drown everything out. New work teaches a computer to separate these sounds.

Picture the early Universe as an unimaginably large bell. Inflation — the era of rapid expansion, dreamed up by Alan Guth, strikes it, sending a wave rippling across the fabric of spacetime.

A drama is brewing in cosmology: two principal musical instruments, the orchestra of the early Universe and the chamber ensemble of the modern cosmos, play the same symphony of expansion at different tempos.

The standard model of cosmology, based on the field equations proposed by Einstein, describes the Universe as a cocktail of dark matter (discovered thanks to Vera Rubin) and dark energy in roughly a 1:3 ratio.

In a close binary system, the hot star, like a searchlight, illuminates its cooler companion. Some of the light scatters off free electrons in its atmosphere — this is Thomson scattering — and acquires linear polarization. As the stars orbit each other, this polarization rotates, like the hand of a peculiar cosmic metronome.

A black hole, like a spinning wheel, twists a cloud of light particles, axions, around itself. These particles are the leading candidates for dark matter. The cloud follows the laws of quantum mechanics, resembling a giant atom: there are levels, and there are transitions between them.

In the pitch darkness of a vacuum chamber, a tiny magnet floats. It touches no walls and loses almost no energy — an ideal sentinel, ready to catch the faintest nudge. Such a sentinel is exactly what you need for axion hunting. These particles are prime suspects in the case of the Universe's hidden mass, which we call dark matter.

The early universe was a restless place. Space trembled with gravitational waves — ripples in the very fabric of reality. In this churning cauldron, dark matter is thought to have been born. But the newborn particles had no mass: it had to come from somewhere. Usually, the Higgs field is responsible for mass.

In the early Universe, tiny black holes could have been born — mountain-mass but atomic-nucleus-sized. Today they could serve as factories for dark matter. There are two mechanisms: the familiar evaporation (Hawking radiation) and the lesser-known superradiance.

The universe is permeated by invisible mass, dark matter, whose existence was first proposed by Fritz Zwicky in the 1930s, based on his observations of galaxies moving in clusters.

If a black hole spins quickly, it can hold a cloud of ultralight particles around it, so light that their mass almost vanishes. They arrange themselves in layers, like electrons in an atom, only here gravity does the job instead of electric forces. This structure stores energy, like a coiled spring.

A single particle can be in two places at once — that's superposition. But any interaction, like a shout, instantly 'collapses' this uncertainty. It was long thought that even gravity could interfere.

Astronomers listen to the cosmos like an old radio: they twist the knob not to find a particular station, but to catch any unusual noise. This approach breaks the mold: instead of hunting for gravitational waves using memorized patterns, they catch everything — without bias.

Two dots on the surface of a balloon: that's all the reference points you have when trying to figure out how it inflates. That's roughly how cosmologists reconstruct the history of the universe's expansion.

A fundamental string plucked at the moment of the Big Bang doesn't just hum a single note — waves run along it, and occasionally tiny loops peel off. These loops, like tuning forks, begin to ring at their own frequency, producing a very high-pitched sound.

In the first moments after the Big Bang, the universe was a boiling cauldron. But then, according to a new hypothesis, it suddenly cooled dramatically — far more than previously thought. In this icy world, dark matter particles, like tiny pendulums, froze and did not begin their oscillations.

The Universe is a vast city. In it, dark matter is the invisible framework of buildings, and dark energy is the force stretching the streets. For a long time they were considered independent, but new research has caught them in secret communication.

Dark matter has eluded direct observation so far, even though its gravity holds galaxies together. One hypothesis: it’s made of axions — ultra-light particles predicted by theory.

In a thin sandwich of semiconductors, light creates pairs, an electron and a positive hole, that stick together like a ball on a rubber band. Normally, such pairs, called excitons, quickly emit light and vanish. But there are others, dark ones, that live hundreds of times longer because their internal structure forbids them from easily giving off energy.

Dark matter is invisible, but its gravity governs the motion of galaxies. What it's made of is a mystery. One idea: it consists of ultra-light particles akin to axions.

In a vast hall, a hundred tuning forks are set out. Each one is a pulsar — an ultra-dense stellar remnant spinning at a furious rate, sending out radio pulses more precisely than any clock. When a low-frequency sound wave sweeps through the hall, all the tuning forks start to go slightly out of tune at the same moment.

A flat crystal of charged atoms suspended in an electromagnetic trap behaves like a perfectly calm pond. The slightest breeze, and ripples spread across its surface. This 'pond' catches the splashes from dark matter particles and the ripples of spacetime — high-frequency gravitational waves.

When two supermassive black holes circle each other before merging, they shake spacetime itself, like a speedboat racing across a lake leaves waves in its wake. These waves are called gravitational waves. They travel through the Universe and pass through everything, even the Earth.

In the first moments after the Big Bang, the cosmos resembled a giant cooling pond. Just as water, when freezing, becomes covered with a network of cracks, so the cooling universe could have cracked — not into ice, but into the thinnest filaments of pure energy. These filaments are called cosmic strings.

A tiny superconductor, levitating above a magnet, is like a cork on the surface of an invisible ocean. The slightest breath of dark matter makes it shudder. Scientists examined two kinds of such 'wind'. The first – gravitational waves, which stretch and squeeze space itself, like ripples on the fabric of the cosmos.

A neutron star the size of a city spins thirty times per second. Its magnetic field is trillions of times stronger than Earth's. Such conditions could spawn a cloud of axions around the star — light particles that no detector has caught yet, but which neatly explain the hidden mass of the Universe.

Two clocks in different rooms need to tick in unison. Usually, this is done by sending bright pulses or pairs of photons that arrive one right after the other. But the signal can be so weak that photons barely make it through. In this work, clocks were synchronized with light a billion times dimmer than usual.

In its infancy, the universe was a hot, plasma-like mixture of particles. Microseconds after the Big Bang, as it cooled, the temperature fluctuated slightly.

A pot on the stove rings when the water boils. An empty copper cup can also "ring"—at radio frequencies — if a dark matter particle is born inside it. These particles are called axions, and according to one hypothesis, they fill the entire galaxy as an invisible cloud.

Dark matter is five times more massive than ordinary matter, yet it emits no light. Its nature remains unknown. One candidate is the ultra-light axion particle. Axions could pierce right through the planet, barely noticing atoms.

If you briefly flash light near a black hole, it will respond with a long echo, like a bell that keeps ringing after being struck. The light gets trapped near the hole, bouncing repeatedly off an invisible boundary: the photon sphere, where rays circle around like sound in a metal.

The Sun’s gravity creates an invisible goblet, in which dark matter of a special kind — ultralight — doesn’t splash around chaotically, but occupies strict energy steps, like transparent layers of liquid. So around the Sun, a natural spectroscope emerges, sorting the invisible substance into levels, just like electrons in an atom.

A ruler made of light: that's one way to describe a new method for measuring tiny time delays. In 1987, Chong Ki Hong, Zhe-Yu Ou, and Leonard Mandel noticed that when two indistinguishable photons hit a beam splitter simultaneously, they always exit together from the same port.