"On my own..." I weep, ambling down the deserted road. The bricks feel bumpy and foreign under my feet, the gentle rain feels like bullets penetrating my bare skin. I collapse to the ground in a moment of anguish.

He's been there forever, but has never noticed me. We're the best of friends, but that is all I will ever be to him - a friend. How can he not feel the way that I feel? Can't he see that I'm the one who's always been there? I've never left his side, never failed him, always happy, always bright - when he's looking.

Oh, Marius! I love you...but only on my own.

One day more until your battle. Our battle. The war we must fight for our freedom.

I wipe my tears, only to have my face streaked again by the rain. I walk aimlessly throughout my little corner of France, listening to happy couple bustling about their homes, catching boys chasing their young lovers. My heart aches at the sight of them, and I think, Why? Why can't that be us? I hear a strange noise from behind me, a sort of beautiful scraping sound. I raise my head and turn, and nearly faint at the sight of a large blue...box...that is standing right in front of me.

I back away, slowly. What is this? Is this a trick? The box appeared in the very place I just walked. And yet it looks as though it has been there for ages.

I shriek as a door from within it opens and a man's head pops out. He's a rather strange-looking man, a bow tie and wide grin, and a mass of hair that floats about him like a mop. The man steps out of his box. Before he closes the door, he yells into it, "Just taking a look around, River..." River? What River? I see no river, apart from the river of rain that rushes down the stony hill into oblivion.

And the man sees me. He looks at me with large, deep-set, inquisitive eyes that seem to have seen things beyond their years.

I cough. "Erm, excuse me, Monsieur, I'm sorry to have bothered you..."

"Bothered!" the man exclaims so wildly that I jump. "You haven't bothered me, not at all! Where are we? When?"

"Erm," I stutter, confused and dazed, "we are in France, Monsieur, it's 1832."

"France," the man mutters to himself, smiling a bit, sadly. "I do like the French. Bit late for my dear de Pompadour...would you know her? No, don't suppose you would. I'm the Doctor."

"Doctor Who?" I ask.