potential

A protein chain folds into a working tool in a fraction of a second, and almost never makes a mistake. For a long time, it was thought that evolution specifically polishes amino acid sequences so that a protein not only works but also easily finds its unique shape. New work turns this idea on its head.

The early universe resembled an overheated cauldron, seething with quantum fluctuations (random bursts of energy). In this chaos, like steam over boiling water, a special field, the scalar field, condensed. It became the 'engine' that made space expand at an incredible rate. This process is called inflation.

Electric charge is a slippery thing. You can measure how much there is in the entire universe or in a single particle, but try to point your finger and say, 'Right here, in this cubic centimeter, there is exactly this much charge right now,' and you hit a fundamental wall. The issue is that total charge, which physicists denote by the letter Q, is nonlocal.

After the Big Bang, the Universe went through a series of phase transitions, like water turning into ice, but with unpredictable patterns.

A wormhole is a tunnel connecting two distant regions of the universe. If such a wormhole existed and were traversable, a particle inside it would feel not only gravity but also a force from its own electric field. This force depends on how spacetime is curved around it.

A regular object moves along a predictable path, like a ball. In the quantum world, a particle is smeared into a probability cloud. To find order in this fog, scientists have recast Schrödinger's equation in the language of flowing water.

A handful of sand falls onto a table: each grain rolls down until it rests in a hollow. That's how a potential works: the table's surface tells the grains where to go. But in a river with whirlpools, there's no single basin everything flows into. Water swirls, returns, and meanders. For such systems, the usual map of 'pits and hills' doesn't apply.

The oldest light in the universe has been traveling toward us for nearly 14 billion years. It was born when the cosmos first became transparent, and since then its plane of oscillation has been rotating ever so slightly. The cause is an invisible ocean permeating all of space: the dark energy field that makes the universe expand faster and faster.

The universe is expanding, and its history features two puzzling episodes that don't fit into a simple picture. The first is a brief period in its youth when everything flew apart faster than expected, as if someone had floored the gas pedal. The second is today's acceleration, as if the same pedal were pressed again, but more gently.

An inflating balloon starts out slowly, then suddenly expands faster and faster, as if someone is pumping it up from inside. That's roughly how our universe behaves: galaxies are receding with acceleration. The culprit behind this acceleration is called dark energy.

A pendulum chooses how to swing on its own. If you give it a strong push, it quickly returns to a smooth rhythm. If you hold it at its extreme position, it will stay there, but as soon as you let go, it resumes its usual motion.

If you drop an ice cube into a glass of water, it will float until it melts. But if you cool the water slowly, at some point it all freezes at once: that's a first-order phase transition: abrupt, with a clear boundary.

An invisible film, a quantum field, is stretched over a rubber bagel. While the bagel is small, the film stays taut and doesn't sag anywhere: the vacuum remains empty. But once you stretch the bagel to a certain size, a dent spontaneously appears in the film — the field starts to be felt at every point. This dent is not random.

Magnetic fields on the surface of the Sun appear as dark spots and bright faculae. But they are born deep inside, where flows of hot gas act like a giant dynamo. The question is whether sunspots on the surface can predict what will happen inside the star years from now. The authors applied a mathematical theorem similar to the rule linking the area of a shape to its boundary.

In a thin layer of liquid crystal (a substance that flows like a liquid but has molecules arranged in order, as in a solid) vortices smaller than the thickness of a human hair are born. These vortices resemble tiny spinning tops: they can move without breaking apart and behave almost like real particles.