STORM
He stands on the hillside, jacket blowing in the wind, his TARDIS behind him, and watches the sky falling.
Blue. Green. Brilliant yellow. Orange and purple, streaking across the night sky, tiny asteroids striking against an invisible barrier, burning up as the unforeseen consequence of an ancient defense mechanism.
Beautiful.
When it first happened, people used to come from miles around to watch it. Families, children, lovers, back when these things existed on Gallifrey. Before the secret of life and time were unlocked. Before everyone solidified into humourless, unchanging statues. Before wonder died.
He's the only one who watches now.