The Doctor doesn't remember her face, or how she laughed, or the way she held his hand when they ran. He doesn't remember the smell of her perfume, or her favorite blouse, or the way her eyes shined. He doesn't remember her tone of voice, or the way she wrinkled her nose. All the Doctor knows is that her name was Clara, and they traveled together.
Wherever she seemed to be in his memory, there was a cloud of fog. The woman on the Orient Express with him was made of fog, little clouds that filled in the gaps of his memory. Placed inside a dalek by Missy was yet more fog. In the Doctor's memories, his hands grasped onto mist where a hand should have been.
The Doctor knew there was a reason for this, although he did not know what that reason could be. He knew he shouldn't try to catch onto that fog, that mysterious Clara, his companion now completely unknown to him. But the Doctor was curious, although not for curiosity's sake. He wanted something to remember her by, anything, a spider's thread of knowledge that her existence had been real.
Inside the TARDIS, the Doctor looked over at the chalkboard. The handwriting wasn't his own, but of a more delicate hand.
Run you clever boy, and be a Doctor.
The Doctor reached out, his hands ghosting over the words scrawled in white. They seemed so familiar to him, and something in his hearts stirred. For a moment, the Doctor thought he could see her again, in his mind. The fog lifted for just a moment.
"Clara," the Doctor breathed. His pressed his palm against the chalkboard. "My Clara."
Hello everyone! If you liked this little story, please leave a review! If you really liked it, you can be a patron on ; my username on there is Aphrodite. Thanks!