The typewriter ping!ed – a set of pink fingernails flying over them. Words! A long string of beautiful, flowing words cascaded in ink onto the paper. A writer - precise and meticulous with words as an artist and their paints. And then the full stop. That final, single conclusion, ending a dream – an idea – as easily as placing a cork in a bottle. Complete.
Amy Williams looked at her words and smiled.
Her reading glasses bordered her large, glistening eyes – the words reflected in them. Wrinkles had formed around her eyes, her skin fragile. The flowing of her red hair resisted aging, shimmering its dull orange in the 1938 sunset light.
"Rory!" she called, tearing the final page from the typewriter, adding it to the bottom of a large stack. "Rory, come quick!"
Rory – hairs greying, slim suited – staggered into the room, breathless. "What is it?"
Amy looked into Rory's eyes, excitement filling her. Bubbling. Overflowing!
"It's finished."
Rory's eye-line was directed towards the stack of papers. His jaw loosened. "You've finished it . . . After all this time."
And, without a word, Amy kissed her husband. It was warm, and passionate, and after they looked into each other's eyes – deep and content.
"I'm so proud of you!" Rory smiled. "This is it then!"
"Yeah, I'll go see the publishers tomorrow. I can tell they're excited about it already though. They called yesterday to say that they genuinely cried because of the extract of Chapter Eleven I sent them!"
Rory laughed, picking up Amy and spinning her in the air. "Mrs Williams, I love you!"
"Shut up and pour a glass," Amy laughed.
"Certainly. A fresh glass for the lady," he joked with a strong British accent, leaving Amy's study with a smile. The door clicked shut behind him.
The room felt empty.
Quickly, sharply, Amy gasped! She clenched her stomach with one hand, her other grasping the side of her desk as she heaved, struggling for air. Her head throbbing, her throat dry . . . And she began to cry! Her legs simply wavered, giving way. She crumpled to the floor, her hair covering her face like a veil.
"Amy?"
Rory had entered the room. He was horrified, truly scared at what he saw. Immediately, he placed the two wine glasses he held on the desk and knelt beside Amy.
"Hey. Hey," he soothed her, pulling her close into a hug, letting her cry on his shoulder. "What's wrong? I thought you were happy?"
"No, no, I am!" Amy insisted, wiping her eyes dry, feigning a smile.
"Then why are you crying?" Rory asked.
Silence. Amy's lips quivered, but her thoughts couldn't quite escape. Rory, as ever, sympathetic and patient.
"I want my Raggedy Man," Amy confessed.
"Oh, Amy," Rory moped, offering his wife a weak smile. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"I want him here. I want him to see what I've just done – my accomplishment!"
"And he will! seventy years from now the Doctor will walk into a bookshop, just looking at first, and then he'll see the name: Amelia Pond. And then he'll pick up a book with your name on it. And open it. And read it. And love it. And then find a whole collection of books written by his best friend, and do you know what will happen then?"
Amy looked back up at Rory – the anticipation and longing for the answer spelt out across her face.
"And then he'll move on. Because he has to. Because he always does. But do you know what, Amy? That doesn't mean – not ever – that he'll forget you. These stories you're writing are proof that we moved on too. That we lived, and will live, long happy lives." Rory picked the novel off the desk and placed it on the floor in front of Amy. "He would be so proud of you. And he'd be so happy to know that you aren't just alive, but that you properly lived!"
Amy laughed – tears streaming down to her chin. "You always know what to say. It's incredibly annoying."
Suddenly, Amy pulled herself to her feet. "There's something I want to show you."
"Show me what?" Rory asked in confusion.
"It's nearly sunset, so any moment now . . ."
"What any moment now?"
Amy opened up the doors to her study, revealing a balcony. The balcony was only a metre squared in size, three floors up, decorated with vines and small plant pots. She held Rory's hand, leading him out into the cool summer breeze, deep amber sunlight glimmering in their eyes.
The New York skyline blazed like a furnace before them – the passion and hope and spirit of the city so clearly played out in front of them. Alive. Nearly bursting at the seams. The scale! The ambition and creativity! Skyscrapers forming in the distance, towering into the clouds. Tiny, toy cars gliding through the streets. A solo saxophone calling from a suburb window not too far aware. And it was all awash with the deep amber sunlight. Darker. Fading into night.
"It's beautiful isn't it," Amy said, drowning in the magic of the city.
"Of all the places to be trapped, I'm glad it was here," Rory agreed.
"Really? I thought, at heart, you were always a Leadworth boy."
"Yeah. Well I was. Until the Doctor."
"That little old life you had planned out – kids and retirement homes and ponytails."
"All so small and intimate and perfect. But then I saw the universe. And the size of it. And, I guess, I realised there was so much more. So much more to see with you. And in a city like this there's always more. Always changing," Rory explained.
The sun dipped below the skyline.
Amy rested her head on Rory's shoulder, muttering to herself, "Summer Falls."