New York was a long way away, but Melody knew that's where she needed to get to. She didn't know why, only that it was scrawled in a secret message on the back of the only picture of her mother that she had, a special message only for her eyes that the Silence never noticed. So when she ran, New York was her only goal; it was a long, long way for such a small child, but Melody was brave, because that was another secret message just for her, behind the same picture. Be brave, Melody.
By train and boat and truck and foot, she made her way slowly and carefully up the east coast of the United States, ever fearful of being tracked down. It was summer, a blessing and a curse; the weather was good, but the heat could be hell. She'd gotten as far as North Carolina by the end of July; she'd been taught enough about survival to know which plants to eat and which to leave alone, so she survived on wild berries and daylilies and the occasional theft from an unsuspecting farmer who probably wouldn't have had the heart to chide the dirty little child in pigtails, anyway, but who very well could have turned her in to the authorities.
This wasn't bad country; it wasn't nearly as sweltering as Florida had been, and her life at the orphanage already seemed like another world entirely. She'd tasted freedom, and it was wonderful, but she was oh so tired; surely she could find some elderly farming couple who had always wanted a child, and they would just keep her without questioning where she'd come from. What was so vital about New York, anyhow?
She'd been walking for a long stretch, this time, and she was hungry and tired and frustrated. Ducking under an overpass to escape the sun, she angrily wiped a tear from her dirty cheek before settling down to try and nap; the berries she'd found were sour, but they kept her belly full enough to let her sleep a little.
"It was you," River had said the first time he visited her at university.
He blinked, scratched his cheek nervously, and replied hesitantly, "Erm...spoilers?" She held the note he'd left her at the hospital up for him to see, and he breathed a sigh of relief; he knew what she was talking about, then. "Oh, right, yes, of course that was me. I signed it 'The Doctor', after all. Thought you'd figure that out."
"No, not this one," she replied, then pointed to a line at the end of the letter and proceeded to explain what she meant. It was a spoiler; one he was glad he knew of, when all was said and done.
When she awoke, there was a picnic basket a few feet from her and a pillow under her head; Melody scrambled to her feet and crouched, catlike, to see if she was being watched. A whole minute passed with no movement, and she cautiously crept towards the basket; it was filled with food, food she could travel with and food to be consumed right away, and a more innocent child would have torn into one of the meat pies immediately. But Melody wasn't raised to be innocent, so she inspected the entire basket first, then sat down in front of it and unfolded the note that had been left taped to the top, a note of only six words:
Be brave, Melody. You are loved.
Tears sprang to her eyes for the second time that afternoon; the handwriting was the same as her secret message. She ran out from under the bridge, clutching the note in her hand, but there wasn't a trace of anyone in sight. Carefully, she folded the paper and tucked it into her large pocket, right alongside the now-creased photograph of her mother, the words ringing like a mantra in her head: be brave, you are loved. You are loved.
Someone loved her, and if that someone needed her to get to New York, then she would do it or die trying.
A mad man in a blue box traveled across space, making up for lost time, leaving messages and clues and hope for those who needed it most, and his wife had been through more than most people could fathom, had been through things she never deserved. He couldn't save her, not really, because it was her job to save him. But he would always, always remind her that she was loved.