She'd passed away in a dignified fashion; sun beaming onto her face as she melted from one into the next. The nurses had all commented on her hair; her beautiful hair, without a grey strand despite turning sixty three. All Sarah Jane had asked for, apart from a cup of water, in her final days were for a doctor. The nurses had all assured her the doctors were around and giving her the attention and care she deserved, but still she persisted - even asking the doctors for a doctor. A doctor, in a little blue box.
The funeral took place a few days later; a beautiful, moving ceremony held in a small village church. The sun was still shining; a natural spotlight for the occasion. Different people had stood up and said a few words, before awkwardly sitting back down and hoping someone else would take their place.
During the wake, people were too busy swapping "do you remember when she...?" anecdotes to notice the little blue box that had appeared
A man stood by the grave, staring down at it. He was wearing dark trousers, a beige jacket and a small, neat bowtie. His hands kept dancing nervously, as if he had no control over them, and he kept muttering; trying to find some words to say, but failing miserably.
The man looked up at the sky and let the sun massage his weary face; so young, and yet so old at the same time. He had wondered if she had had someone at the end, just a hand to hold, or a smile to see. He had felt what she had gone through in those final moments ten times before; each time had left a new man standing in his predecessor's place. But Sarah Jane had left more than that; she had left family, friends, memories and stories that the whole Universe would be saying "do you remember when she...?" until the end of time itself.
Finally, he nodded, before turning back to the little blue box and disappearing.
A week later, a relative walked into the graveyard, carrying flowers. She gasped and dropped the bunch the moment she laid eyes on Sarah Jane's grave. The headstone, light grey and new, had a long, very colourful scarf wrapped around it. Pinned to the material was a note: "Goodbye Sarah Jane," it said, in loopy, scrawled handwriting. "From all of us."
The office was really very quiet at this time of night. A young woman with chestnut brown hair sat a desk, furiously typing away at an old typewriter. She kept blowing an annoying strand of hair out of her face, before shivering. A sixth sense had reared its head and tapped her on the shoulder.
"Is somebody there?" she asked.
An odd looking man with a bowtie and quiff walked out of the shadows. She looked up at him, before quickly standing. Sarah Jane was startled at first, but there was something so familiar about this man. Had she met him before?
"Can I help you?" she asked calmly.
"Not more than you already have." he replied, smiling gently. She detected a fleck of regret or sadness in his impossibly green eyes. "Goodbye to you Sarah Jane."
With that, he walked out into the darkness and heavy rain, granting himself the pleasure of one last look. The water fell from the sky, matting his hair to his long face, and streaking down his nose and cheeks like tears. Maybe he was crying, along with the world outside. Sarah Jane watched him fade away, shrugged, and settled back to down her work.
One day, she hoped, someone would take her away from all this.