When Time Betrays the Heart

The day my wife died, new words bled across a diary I'd sealed away twelve years ago.

*"Hello, thirty-year-old Dominic Delgado. I am you at eighteen."*

I couldn't breathe. Before the shock could settle, another sentence burned into existence, the ink still wet.

*"Amy has already married you by now, right? She has to be."*

*"I'm so nervous. Hurry up and tell me the result. I'm getting ready to confess to her."*

The diary slipped from my fingers. It hit the floor with a sound like a coffin lid slamming shut.

Amy Ware and I dated for eight years. Married for four.