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It begins with a man and a girl, travelers far and wide. The man, lonely as the skies. The girl, alone like her empty house. And yet, when they meet they have no use for loneliness- they have worlds to explore.
Even when it seems to end, it does not. For the letters begin.
I discovered something new today. Funny, isn’t it? That I can still be surprised after all I’ve seen. And by something so simple as sunflowers in the garden, that I did not plant. And Rory certainly didn’t. It’s nothing groundbreaking, but our garden is coming along beautifully.
We miss you.
Even if they are not read, writing soothes the parts left behind on that brisk Manhattan afternoon. And so they continue.
We adopted a son. His name is Anthony, and I wish he could meet his mad, wild uncle. He questions everything, I imagine you two would yap on for hours about the slightest things. Don’t worry, I tell him about you. He knows his uncle in the stories we have. Not the scary ones, of course.
The penmanship changes as the letters age. As if the woman was becoming more practiced in her writing skills, cursive looping the letters with ease.
There’s a place for you at our table, you know. My boy never questioned it, he grew up with that fourth place at our table. It feels right.
You’d laugh if you saw us now. I’ve written a children’s book- River insisted. It’s doing better than I ever expected, Doctor. I think you’d be proud. She says to say “Hello, Sweetie”.
My little boy got married today. Anthony looked so handsome, so happy. You would have loved the party- Rory danced with our son like a madman. You never told me you’d taught my husband those ridiculous dance moves. It was perfect.
Rory’s gone. He’s gone and I’m still here.
River visited me today. We had tea and talked as we usually do, but this felt different. Something is wrong, my girl is easier to read than she realizes. I want you to know it’s not your fault. I love you. It’s almost time for me to see Rory again, Raggedy Man. Look to the stars for me, Doctor. I’m looking at them now. I’ve seen them up close, all those years ago (or will, one day). Look at them, and know that I did the same and thought of you.
Love,
Amy
It ends with a spot of ink on parchment. The end of a sentence, a final word. For what else can you write, knowing the recipient will never lay eyes upon it?
And yet, the universe has its own machinations. And many things happen for a reason. Like one Doctor finding the woman who forgot, and making her remember once more. Just like the Girl Who Waited, her letters were just as patient.
Rose Noble was bored.
She visited this museum often, and many times with her uncle at her side to point out the inaccuracies of their exhibits. On a class trip, the novelty was distinctly more lacking. She hung back as her teacher explained the history of an old letter written to a governess in the 1600s. Rose smiled, the Doctor’s voice in her head whispering “wrong” as the woman explained it was from a maid, tending her resignation from the household due to improper treatment. It was all about what many did not see, written on paper. Scholarly findings rarely looked closer at what words were truly saying. The maid was resigning from the household because she was in love with the governess.
“But how do you know?” Rose had asked, examining the letter herself and finding none of the subtext he spoke of.
“She’s writing more than she needs to, and signs it “with love”,” The Doctor had replied. “You can see her trying to hide it when she’s talking about the governess herself, never says anything too awful about her, but enough to fake it.” He smirked. “Also, I know them well, lovely couple. Throw the wildest dinner parties if you can believe it. Mary made the most potent moonshine I’d ever-” He cut himself off at Rose’s raised brow and cleared his throat. “Anyways.”
Rose’s attention strayed, a new section of the museum catching her eye. It was a small installment of parchment, much like Mary and Ismenia. She peered closer through the glass and caught her breath. “Letters to a Doctor” was the installment’s less than imaginative title. That alone would have had Rose bolting home at the revelation. She forced herself to read more and immediately called her uncle.
***
The Doctor entered the museum with a sense of foreboding. He made his way to where Rose had set up vigil before the glass installation, and watched as she moved aside silently. She seemed to understand this was beyond words.
He read the first letter, and something inside him lurched, crumpling more as Amelia Pond writes about sunflowers on a beautiful spring day. He thought of a sunflower painting in another museum, in another year, but forced himself to read on. He read of the nephew he had never met, of a wedding he never saw, of Amy’s book, an empty place setting, lost moments.
The Doctor couldn’t help but feel these words were seen too late, they were to the wrong Doctor. He couldn’t help but continue, even as his hearts began to feel impossibly heavy. He got to the end, where Rory vanished from the letters, a void in the scrawled words. And finally, the last entry. Rose watched him begin to read it, but stopped him by placing a hand on his shoulder.
He looked at her, confused.
“Not yet,” she said. “Take it with you, first. I have an idea.”
The museum was missing a letter within a minute.
They arrived home as the sun was setting, and greeted Donna at the door. She gave her friend a smile of understanding, endless compassion in her eyes. She ushered the Doctor to the backyard, where a blanket had been laid out on the lawn. The letter in his hand felt heavy, as if the ink weighed the same as every year separating him and his lost friend.
He sat upon the blanket as Donna pressed a kiss to his forehead, telling him to take the time he needed before she reentered the house. He began the final letter as the moon emerged. He finished it while each star glittered in the endless sky.
Tears blurred them together as he laid back on the blanket. He did exactly what he was told, and looked up into those stars, imagining his friend doing the same. Because she had been right, of course. They were the same stars. Just as he was the same Doctor, though his face had changed.
He looked at them, and remembered.