Colleague - A blog on every pro to fun

History is often written in ink, but sometimes, if you look closely enough, you can see the tear stains. I found myself thinking about this yesterday during a vivid daydream. Imagine stepping not into a sleek sci-fi portal, but onto a sun-drenched terrace in San Remo, Italy. The year is 1896. The air smells of salt water, cypress trees, and the faint, acrid tang of blasting caps. Sitting there, hunched over a heavy oak table, was a man who looked older than his sixty-three years. He had a beard trimmed in the style of the era and eyes that held a profound, haunting sadness. It was Alfred Bernhard Nobel. In my story, I didn't approach him as a fan or a critic. I simply sat across from him. He didn't seem surprised. In the haze of the Mediterranean heat, perhaps a visitor from the future seemed like just another side effect of his chronic migraines. "You look like you carry the weight of the world, Mr. Nobel," I said, breaking the silence. He sighed, putting down his pe...