[ WP ] After the love of your life dies , you discover that they 're actually from another universe , where you died

The bells of the tower tolls out eight long, baleful notes, matching the rhythm of my heart. I wished for both to stop. Looking down at the man in the casket below me I saw the love of my life, the man who gave me meaning. He was my rock, my soul, my castle and now he was gone, taken from me by a pair of speeding lights on a rainswept road in the night. His dark cheeks were sunken into that sharp jawbone, for even in death he was handsome. Closed eyelids hid those fierce dark eyes that told me: you have meaning. Nothing could stop the tears from running down my face onto the last suit he will ever wear. The bell ’ s final tone rang into silence, accentuating how barren the small chapel was. I had asked my family to come on a whim alone but they have not had anything to do with me after they cursed my name out the house ten years ago. For here I stand, as alone as I was before the day I met Joseph. 
 
 There is nothing worse than having to go through the things of your loved ones after they die. I couldn ’ t bring myself to do it, not yet. Our bed never felt so empty and cold, every night I cried myself to sleep for without his strong arms to hold me I had no anchor to latch onto and keep myself from drifting away. The writing desk and sheets of paper which he had given me to pursue my dreams left scattered about and crumpled, in my foolishness I had believed that I could be a great writer. Seeing my face in the bathroom mirror I only held contempt for the dull eyes that gazed back at me, the scattered curls, the short brown stubble, every bit as despicable as the last. I don ’ t know what luck came to me on the day we met but I didn ’ t deserve such a kind and caring man in my life. 
 
 I found his journal on the bedside table. I had joked once about reading it when he wasn ’ t home and instead he left it out all the time, `` because I know I can trust you'', he said. Now he was gone. Opening it I saw his flowing cursive that put my blocky ten-year-old calligraphy to shame. There was a single line on the first page: 
 
 ‘ Time is a river with infinite branches, having no ending or beginning ’. 
 
 He always did have a love for grandiose statements. 
 
 `` I found him. I thought it would be a lot harder really. Like Where ’ s Waldo except on hard mode where he doesn ’ t have his striped red shirt and the picture is an entire town, but there he is. A shadow that no one notices in the corner of the bar, sipping the cheapest beer they offer because I doubt he can afford anything else to drown his sorrows in. I never really took notice of him the first few jumps back in time but I think it ’ s the destiny of all time travelers, dimension divers, whatever you want to call us, to save lives. I know full well it probably won ’ t work, death has a funny way of being irreversible, but feel an endless calling towards the task. If I can just give that man one more day, one more hour, one more second. Then I will be happy. I know in three weeks he will commit suicide. At 11:32 pm, he will jump of the highest building he can get to. I will stop him, I will save him. No matter the cost.''
