It's morning and it's quiet. Only the cool breeze whispers in the grass. The bright green grass, the color you'd only see in spring. It's tiny still; it bends and straightens up again with such stubbornness and hope that could be found only in young. It's morning and the breeze isn't successful enough in frightening off the mist that's still clinging to these little blades of life, cold and wet, stretching up to feel the warmth of the sun again. It's quiet. Another hour and you'll hear the birds singing, but it's too early for them yet. Even for them. In two hours you'll hear the first cars. In two and a half hours you'll see an old attendant push his cart carefully between gravestones. Half an hour later he'll go back to his office bowing silent greetings to another daily visitor. You'll watch the woman walk to the stone just a few rows further than you sit and then it'll be quiet again.
It's been what, a month? And you haven't missed a single act of this morning routine. You come and sit here in the grass and then you leave, so that your children wouldn't see a stranger at their parent's grave.
You leave, but every evening you come back, because you really don't have anywhere else to go or because you can't be in the only place you really want to be as it would break her hear as it had torn your two to shreds.
You think you want to be that grass, so full of hope and certainty and meaning. This strength of youth… You stop yourself because you actually do have it and it hurts every time you catch your reflection in a shop window. You wish you were this grass, and then you could stay here forever. Because now you can't. You used to be so good at running, but it was such a long time ago it took you a month to make yourself do this. Make you leave. You feel the coolness of the morning air in your hair and shiver, as you're not ready. Even now.
You hear the first whistle of the bird that lives in the attic of the attendant's house and now it's time to get up and go. Because as much as you don't want to, the truth is you can't bear watching the devastation in the woman's face or the false compassion on the attendant's any longer.
And still you sit on the bright green grass covering your empty grave. The bird stops but the distant growl of the engine breaks the silence again. You get up slowly only to leave a spot of stamped grass. You step back and watch in fascination as it strengthens up again. You look around then, just one final glance at the place where your life should have ended. Not a bad place, you decide and turn around to leave. The mist is nearly gone by the time you reach the gate and there, on the other side of the street stands the familiar blue box.
Your TARDIS is finally grown enough to leave the planet.
Author Note. i think i was probably too vague about who it's about and what happened. It's Duplicate Ten, who lived his life with Rose and grew old. and then somehow regenerated into his 11th body, young and all.