The Last Time Traveler

He was the last of his kind. The last time traveler in the world. He had seen it all: the rise and fall of civilizations, the birth and death of stars, the creation and destruction of life. He had witnessed the wonders and horrors of history, and he had learned from them. He had also made mistakes, and he had tried to fix them. But every time he changed something in the past, he created a new timeline, a new reality. And every time he returned to his present, he found it different from what he remembered.

He was alone. He had no friends, no family, no home. He had lost them all in his endless journeys through time. He had outlived them all, or erased them from existence. He had no purpose, no goal, no meaning. He was tired of living, but he was afraid of dying. He was trapped in a paradox of his own making.

He decided to end it all. He decided to go back to the beginning of time, to the moment of the Big Bang, and witness the birth of the universe. He hoped that by doing so, he would also end his own existence, and free himself from his curse. He set his time machine to the coordinates of the origin of everything, and pressed the button.

He expected to see a blinding flash of light, a deafening roar of sound, a violent explosion of matter and energy. He expected to feel nothing, to be nothing. He expected to be gone.

But he was wrong.

He saw nothing. He heard nothing. He felt nothing. He was nothing.

He was in a void. A dark, silent, empty void.

He realized that he had made a mistake. He had not gone back to the beginning of time. He had gone beyond it. He had gone to a place where time did not exist. Where nothing existed.

He was stuck. He could not go back. He could not go forward. He could not do anything.

He screamed. But no one heard him.

He cried. But no one saw him.

He prayed. But no one answered him.

He was the last time traveler in the world.

And he wished he never was.