By: Michael Moats

I never set out to measure a wormhole.

On April 23rd, 2025, I was in my workshop. It was a typical day, and my focus was on a separate engineering experiment involving reflective foil. Nothing in the setup suggested it would be anything more than a simple calibration task. I have a degree in Electrical Engineering, and the work was routine—setting up foil reflectors to test electromagnetic interference patterns. The reflectors were 12 inches by 12 inches, and I suspended them using rubber bands and clips attached to wooden 2×4 stands. These were elevated 48 inches off the ground to maintain a consistent height.

I was measuring the distance between two of the foil stands using a standard laser measuring tool—something you could buy at any hardware store. It’s a handy device, precise enough for most practical applications. The goal was to ensure a uniform distance between reflectors. I had aligned the tool, taken the initial measurement, and was preparing to take the second when something unexpected occurred.

As I held the tool aimed at the second reflector, I heard a faint sound—a very soft, irregular tapping, like a light rain falling on aluminum. It came from the foil closest to me. My first instinct was mechanical: perhaps the rubber bands had begun to stress or loosen, causing the foil to ripple slightly. I paused and leaned in to inspect it more closely. But visually, nothing had changed. The foil was taut. No tears. No movement. Still, the tapping persisted, barely audible.

And then the laser tool gave an error.

Not a calibration error or a misread—an out-of-range signal. According to the tool, the distance between the reflectors had suddenly become too large to measure. That’s impossible. The reflectors were just a ten feet apart. I double-checked the alignment. The tool was functioning properly seconds earlier. Now, it was overloaded.

As I tried to reset the tool, the tapping sound on the foil grew slightly louder—not dramatically, but enough for me to register a change. It was as if something unseen was interacting with the environment, yet leaving no visible trace. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. The laser tool reset itself. The foil went silent. Everything returned to normal.

The entire event lasted maybe 5 or 6 seconds.

I stood there, tool in hand, scanning the room. Nothing seemed out of place. I checked the foil again. Still pristine. I tested the laser tool—working fine. I even measured the distance again. The correct reading displayed. It was as if those six seconds had never happened.

But they had.

The incident nagged at me for days. I went over it again and again in my head. What could cause a perfectly functioning laser tool to momentarily report infinite distance? What could make foil give off a patter like that with no physical disturbance? The deeper I thought, the stranger it seemed. And then, a possibility occurred to me—so outrageous I dismissed it at first: I had measured a wormhole.

Let me explain.

A wormhole is a theoretical passage through space-time, a tunnel that connects two distant points in the universe. According to general relativity, they could exist, although they have never been observed. Most physicists agree that, if they are real, wormholes would be unstable and short-lived, appearing and collapsing in mere moments. But they would also create very strange and measurable distortions in space.

My experience ticks several boxes.

First, the laser measuring tool. These tools rely on bouncing a laser beam off a surface and timing its return. If a wormhole opened between the reflectors—if even for a fraction of a second—the beam could have passed through it. Suddenly, the tool would receive no return signal within its maximum range. It would read the distance as beyond measurable. It would fail exactly as it did.

Second, the sound. That faint patter on the foil may not have been mechanical stress. If particles—cosmic dust, solar wind, or even vacuum energy—escaped through the wormhole, they could have interacted with the foil. Not with force, but delicately. Like mist falling on a drumhead. Just enough to make a sound.

Third, the timing. The wormhole did not move. I believe I did. Earth orbits the sun at roughly 67,000 miles per hour. If the wormhole was stationary in space, we intersected with it briefly. For just a few seconds, my workshop aligned with a cosmic anomaly.

This isn’t something I can prove. Not yet.

But it fits the data. It fits the experience. And it won’t let go of me.

Over the following weeks, I revisited the workshop daily. I checked the foil setup. I recalibrated the laser tool. I even contacted the manufacturer to confirm there were no known glitches of this nature. There weren’t. I researched similar events—odd instrumentation anomalies, unexplained particle impacts, unexplained acoustic phenomena—but nothing matched perfectly.

Eventually, I began planning.

Next year, on April 23rd, I will attempt to recreate the conditions. Same room. Same setup. Same time of day. But this time, I’ll come prepared.

I’m designing a foil particle catcher—larger than the reflectors, and rigged with vibration sensors capable of picking up even the lightest impacts. This will allow me to record and analyze any similar pattering sounds. I’ll use a more advanced distance measuring system, likely LIDAR-based, which can record anomalies in more detail and store the data for later analysis.

Additionally, I’ll record everything—video, audio, environmental sensors. If the wormhole appears again, I want to catch it from every angle. If it doesn’t, I’ll still have data to compare.

There’s a chance it was a fluke. A perfect storm of coincidence. But I don’t believe it was. The universe is full of phenomena we don’t yet understand. Sometimes they show up where we least expect them—in quiet workshops, during routine experiments, on an ordinary April afternoon.

Some might say this is science fiction. Maybe. But science fiction has a history of becoming science fact.

When I measured that infinite distance, I wasn’t just aligning foil. I believe I stumbled onto something extraordinary. A glimpse into the unknown. A ripple in the fabric of reality.

And I intend to find it again.