Clara Oswald often wondered what it must be like to be without a name. What it must be like in those precious moments, hours, maybe a day - if you were lucky - when your parents had yet to burden you with a name, and you were free from all the connotations and details and heaviness that was awarded to you with one.
Sometimes Clara wished that she was nameless: a faceless shadow in the corner of the room, whom nobody saw - but somehow, everyone knew you were there. Other times, she wanted to scream and shout her name from the rooftops, to let the world know who she was, and that she would never go quietly.
That little girl from Blackpool, Clara Oswald, yeah? She left without a word one day. Some say the devil stole her soul. Others know the truth.
From an early age, Clara knew she was different. She knew that she understood the world, even felt it differently, if that were possible. She could feel the sun on her soul and the windows in her eyes let the light into the stark blackness everytime she opened them. She could feel the breeze on her eyelashes and see the colours of the night - even if it was lunchtime.
One day when she was seven, Clara met a woman without a name.
Being Clara, she had diverted from the school road and found herself in the woods, climbing trees and stopping to sniff at the occasional daffodil before becoming aware that she was being watched. Clara was an incredibly bright girl and knew that not all the people in the world were good. She could sense the darkness inside them; she could sense the darkness inside herself.
She stopped and stood stiffly behind the tree, until her curiosity got the better of her. Popping her head out, she saw a frighteningly frail old woman.
"Hello?" She had called quietly. "Are you going to hurt me?" Clara could see the kindness on the lady's scarred face though, and had only asked as a precaution.
The woman chuckled. "No, child. Are you going to hurt me?"
Clara was confused now, but her curiosity made her bolder and she stepped from behind the tree. "Why would I hurt you? I don't even know you."
"No, you don't. Come now, what's your name?"
"Clara', she said shifting her weight from one foot to the other, unsure as to whether she should stick her hand out to be shaken or not. After reaching the conclusion that she shouldn't, she folded both hands behind her back and leaned forward. "What's yours?"
"My mother gave me a name once, a long, long time ago, but it has been lost in time and pain."
"But don't you mind?' Clara asked bravely. "Doesn't that make you sad? Aren't you lonely?"
The woman smiled, but Clara could clearly see the pain etched into the lines on her face, mingling with the kindness there. It was a sorrowful sight, but one Clara would come to know well in the future; it would become an old friend, albeit an unwanted one.
Later, when Clara realised that life and school and the mundane things in life were waiting, she said goodbye to that old lady without a name and ran off. She never saw that woman again, but realised that a tiny piece of her heart had been lost in the woods, gifted to the woman. She asked many people if they knew that lady, but she was without a trace, never to be found again.
Many years later, Clara would still think back to that woman, and to how lonely it must be without a name.
Years passed and time went on and people died and cried and laughed and danced and lived. A woman of barely forty-one years died and a girl of fifteen wept. She saw the pain etched into her father's face, mingling with the kindness there. Her mother had been buried in the fresh dirt and there was no gravestone to be found yet. Her mother was just another dead human buried in the dirt and watered by the tears of her daughter. Clara wondered: if a gravestone never came, then in a hundred years time no one would remember her mother. She would be forever gone, and immortality would be lost to her.
Because, if no one knows your name, who are you?
Who will you ever be?
It was by Ellie Oswald's grave that Clara decided to become a teacher. She wanted to share her perspective of life, her unique thoughts on life and death and colours and rain with people who might listen.
Run run run run run run run.
Trapped.
Trapped in world lacking opportunity trapped in a house with locks on the door trapped taking care of people who needed her.
Yes, she understood the Maitland's needed her. Yes, the kids were sweet and kind and loud and broken. Yes, she thought, but why me?
Why has life trapped me?
She was definitely having a bad day. Artie had dropped her favourite mug and now the bloody internet wasn't working. She tried ringing the helpline the odd woman in the shop had given her and was almost ready to give up when somebody finally answered. The man on the other end sounded too young and far too confused to help her, but he did.
It was no surprise to her a few minutes later when she realised that the universe had so much more to it than she ever thought. And even when she was offered the chance to see it all a day later, she asked for a few more minutes to sit, because she could see it all in his eyes and it was beautiful.
She understood now, why people had names. Because, even if they were a burden, what they meant to people was amazing. Names were special, precious, and if you were careful, they could liberate you, give you freedom from the crushing weight of life.
His name was The Doctor, but it wasn't really The Doctor. The Doctor was just a legacy, something feared universally and loved unconditionally and Clara knew that. Clara knew his name, the one known by none but those who understood life like he did: that it was cruel, heartbreakingly cruel, but if you looked closely there is kindness everywhere.
Clara had seen life in the woman, and in herself, but most of all she saw it in him.
That little girl from Blackpool, Clara Oswald, yeah? She left without a word one day. Some say the devil stole her soul. Others know the truth.
The devil didn't steal her soul: a man stole her heart.
He had ancient eyes and fragile hearts and war-hardened hands. His stares spoke of lost time and a love purer than air - and it was their love that would be remembered, a timeless, evergrowing legacy that would always remain.
And they ran and ran and ran, The Doctor and his Impossible Girl, until stars exploded and worlds collided and their names were lost to time.