spacetime

A superconductor pushes out a magnetic field like a sponge squeezing out water. This Meissner effect has been known for nearly a century, but it's usually calculated in a flat world — without gravity. In the strong field of a black hole or at enormous speeds, the picture changes.

An ordinary mirror swaps left and right. Many laws of physics don't notice the swap: they are mirror-symmetric. But some phenomena, like the weak interaction, break this symmetry. Until now, it was thought that gravity and light each break mirror symmetry in their own independent way.

Dozens of radio dishes scattered across Earth have spent years listening to the ticking of distant pulsars — dead stars that spin and emit pulses more steadily than atomic clocks. When a gravitational wave passes between the star and us, the ticking is slightly disrupted.

Newton gave us a world where bodies move in a void and clocks tick the same for everyone. For three centuries, this picture worked flawlessly. But it relies on many invisible props: absolute position, the 'up-down' direction, and a single rhythm of time for the entire universe. We have never measured these directly — only through the relations between objects.

A scale that weighs not a body, but the very space around it. That's how Einstein's equations work in general relativity: they link the curvature of spacetime to what resides within it.

In the familiar picture of the world, an event is a point on the map of spacetime: 'here and now,' with no size or internal structure.

A pendulum in a noisy room is constantly jostled by people passing by. Its motion is a mix of regular swings and random jerks. Something similar happens with weak gravitational waves against the backdrop of an expanding universe. In Einstein's general relativity, these waves are tiny ripples in spacetime.

Clocks in the Universe are tricky things. Usually, in calculations of the birth of the world, a special scalar field plays the role of a clock — something like an invisible fluid filling all of space. It ticks, and physicists watch how the world changes relative to that ticking. But these clocks are man-made, introduced for convenience. The authors of the new work took a different path.

In the quiet of the quantum world, there is no emptiness. Particles are intertwined by invisible threads — entanglement. The authors of the work proposed that the very fabric of spacetime is woven from these threads. This is not just a metaphor: they built a mathematical framework where the distance between points is determined by how much shared information they hold.

Two balls dropped from different heights fall to the ground with different accelerations. In space, things are more complicated: even emptiness makes bodies move differently.

General relativity, which describes the structure of the universe, does not forbid closed timelike curves. But Stephen Hawking put forward the 'chronology protection' conjecture: quantum effects should destroy such curves, making time travel to the past impossible.

Space is not a void but a mosaic of tiny cells. In loop quantum gravity, spacetime curvature is transferred from a smooth sheet to a network of 'atoms' of volume — spin networks. Each node of such a network is a quantum of space, and the links between them are quanta of area. But how does this mosaic change over time?

A clay ball is kneaded in your hands, changing shape but not tearing — some parts stretch, others compress. That's roughly how physicists work with spacetime, except their fingers are equations and their clay is a six-dimensional world.

Two synchronized swimmers dive into the sea. One hits calm water, the other a whirlpool. Their movements, perfectly coordinated at the start, diverge. Something similar happens to two quantum particles when one moves in flat space and the other in curved space.

An endless ocean where every wave carries information about what happens in the depths. That is roughly how our Universe works under the holographic principle: the physics inside a volume can be described by processes on its boundary.

In the grand orchestra of the universe, every instrument has its own rhythm. Electrons in an atom make quantum leaps in femtoseconds, neurons in the brain exchange signals in milliseconds, and a human needs tenths of a second to become aware of the 'now.' Physicists have long sought the conductor…

In quantum physics, there are theories where everything follows clear proportions, like a musical rhythm that always returns to the beginning of the bar. But there are also 'irrational' theories where the rhythm breaks and predicting the next beat is nearly impossible. One such theory is the compactified boson: a particle lives on a circle, and its behavior depends on the radius of that circle.

A runner on the middle of a track suddenly switches to a walk — not speeding up or slowing down, but maintaining a constant pace. Something similar may have happened to the universe itself shortly after the Big Bang.

In the ocean, a whirlpool pulls everything into a closed loop, just as a gravitational wave in empty space twists time into a loop. Gravitational wave — a ripple in the fabric of spacetime, and its special shape can turn the usual flow of events into a closed cycle. In such a zone, an object can return to its own past without violating the laws of physics.

An object cannot be a point. At least, not in Einstein's gravity. The equations of general relativity require that the source of the field, matter, be smeared out in space, not concentrated in an infinitesimal volume. Otherwise, infinities appear in the formulas, and a smooth spacetime cannot be constructed.

The expansion of the universe is like an inflating balloon: galaxies recede from each other, and space itself stretches. In such a picture, known as de Sitter space, there is a special point of view: an observer sees only a part of the world, bounded by a horizon beyond which light cannot penetrate.

When massive bodies accelerate (say, two stars orbiting each other) the space around them doesn't stay calm. It trembles like the surface of a pond after a stone is thrown. These tremors are called gravitational waves. They carry energy away, and the source gradually loses mass.

A builder checks the strength of an arch not by running through all possible shapes in their head, but by mentally nudging it and seeing how much force is expended. That's essentially how the principle of virtual work works in mechanics. The authors of a new study have applied this approach to the very geometry of spacetime. They constructed a covariant framework of virtual work for the metric.

Gravity is usually explained through the curvature of spacetime. Massive bodies press it down like a bowling ball on a stretched rubber sheet. But this approach has two lesser-known twins. In one, gravity arises from torsion (twisting) of spacetime; in the other, from its non-metricity (when lengths and angles change during transport).

An ordinary donut surface, but not smooth — instead, pierced by invisible layers, like puff pastry where each layer is slightly rotated relative to its neighbor. That's how a contact structure on a three-dimensional manifold works: at each point, a plane is defined, and these planes twist smoothly, touching each other according to a special law.

The universe is expanding faster and faster thanks to dark energy. But measurements of the rate give contradictory results. A new explanation: in the past, dark energy acted as a brake, slowing the galaxies' recession, and then switched to acceleration. Like a car that first rolls backward and then lunges forward.

Time is a fickle thing. Inside a massive star, it flows calmly, like sand in an old clock on a mantelpiece. Outside, on the scale of the entire universe, it stretches along with space, as if the same clock were in an elevator that speeds up and slows down. For a long time, physicists puzzled over whether these two worlds could be glued together without visible seams.

Spacetime can be imagined as a tightly stretched fabric. A massive body dents it, guiding light. Rotation twists the fabric into a spiral. Such a gravitational funnel can entangle a passing photon with the very source of rotation — say, a tiny mirror. Quantum entanglement springs up: an invisible thread binding their fates.

Gravitational waves are the very trembling of space, born when black holes or other massive bodies collide. Their main oddity isn't that they pass through us, but that they permanently alter the curvature of spacetime and the distances between everything they touch.

You can zoom into a high-resolution photo for a long time — until suddenly a smooth face dissolves into individual pixels. Something similar, according to a new study, happens to spacetime itself. The authors propose that tiny intervals of length are not pre-existing 'parts' of the universe but results of measurements.

An old mechanical alarm clock ticks on the shelf. You hear the steady sound, see the hands moving, and you're certain time is passing. But if you take the clock apart, you won't find a single part labeled "time." Only springs and gears.

The quantum world is known for uncertainties: for example, you can't measure a particle's position and its speed at the same time. But new research shows that in a 'fuzzy' spacetime, even probability itself — the measure of chance — loses sharpness. A foggy compass doesn't give an exact direction: its needle wavers.

Spacetime isn't a flat sheet, but a crumpled fabric: stars and planets leave creases on it. Information is written into every crease, and to erase it, heat would have to be released — that's how Landauer's principle works. Thus, the 'crumpledness' of space can be measured through entropy — the universal measure of disorder.

The deepest equations of physics, like the Wheeler–DeWitt equation, contain no time. Past and future are scrambled within them, like frames on a film reel with no arrow indicating which way to play it. This symmetry is not a flaw but a feature.

The universe is not a solid monolith, but a canvas of countless quantum threads. Spacetime doesn't flow like water, but vibrates like a tapestry in the wind. For a long time, physicists only saw the overall pattern, neglecting the tremor of individual threads.

A hot coffee on the table cools down: heat spreads from the hot center to the edges. The authors suggest that the universe behaves in a similar way, just on scales of billions of light-years. Their model describes not the usual dark energy, but a smooth redistribution of energy within the cosmos, akin to the slow flow of heat from denser regions to rarefied ones.

When two dead stars collide in a distant galaxy, two messengers bring us the news: a shiver in space, a gravitational wave, and a flash of light. Both messengers race toward us across the entire Universe, but their paths can differ slightly. Light sometimes gets delayed by cosmic dust, while gravitational waves pass through everything almost without noticing obstacles.

A stone falls into a well, and the splash reaches your ears with a delay. Something similar happens to light as it leaves Earth: its oscillations become less frequent, the beam seems to 'tire.' This is gravitational redshift — a phenomenon Einstein spoke of a century ago.

Drop a stone into a pond, and ripples spread across the water. As the stone sinks, the waves radiate outward and gradually fade. But if you look at the very fabric of spacetime, it turns out things work a bit differently.

Holography is the idea that everything happening inside a volume can be encoded on its boundary, like an image on a hologram. In physics, this helps connect gravity to the quantum world. But sometimes, the holographic rules fail to assemble familiar spacetime, and scientists are looking for where exactly the mechanism breaks down.