In a small New York hotel room in the winter of 1943, Nikola Tesla sat by the window, watching the city he had helped electrify. Snow fell silently on the streets below, muffling the sounds of a restless world that had already moved on to other geniuses, other dreams.

On the desk before him lay a tangle of copper wires and a small glass bulb. It was nothing special to look at — not like the great coils of his Colorado Springs laboratory, nor the towering Wardenclyffe Tower that had once promised to send power through the air. But to Tesla, this tiny experiment meant something different. It was a final whisper to the universe.

He held the bulb between his fingers and closed his eyes. In his mind, he saw the entire web of the world — invisible currents humming through earth and sky, binding every living thing in light and vibration. “Energy,” he murmured, “is eternal. We are but its instruments.”

The bulb flickered, faintly at first, then steadier — glowing without a wire, without a socket. Just air and will. Tesla smiled. “You see,” he said softly to the pigeon perched on the sill, “it still listens to me.”

Outside, lightning cracked across the clouds — a brief, brilliant arc of white. To the people below, it was just a storm. To Tesla, it was a greeting.