"Happy Anniversary!" Rory exclaims as he sets down a brand new typewriter in front of Amy.
"It's beautiful," Amy says, running her fingers over the keys, "But we stopped counting since last year."
"What do you mean?" Rory says, "It's still been six years."
"Technically we won't be married for another 72," Amy says jokingly.
"Since when were you one to care about technicalities, eh?" Rory says.
"Technically you're not 25 either, but the Doctor did you a favor when he got those birth certificates," Rory quips.
"Oi! Stupidface," Amy says, "I think it's time to shut up now."
"Oh, is it?" Rory says coyly.
"Kiss me, ya idiot," she adds.
Amy and Rory celebrate their 6th anniversary, albeit 77 years too early, on June 26th, 1938. Since the angels transported them back in time many things have changed. They purchased a small home with some of the money that River had given them. They bought a white house with a picket fence and a garden in the suburbs of New York City. Amy insisted Rory paint their door TARDIS blue in honor of the Doctor and their travels. Though it was a reminder of the happiness they had, Amy's heart often felt a pang sadness upon looking at it. Amy had secured herself a job in the city as a secretary for a business, Alcott and Preston Advertisements. While her job paid the bills, it was often unfulfilling. She longed to have a purpose, to do more than just answer phone calls and schedule meetings. She wanted to write. Rory worked tirelessly in his old field, nursing, to both pay for his Doctoral schooling and purchase her a typewriter. All Rory wanted was to make Amy happy, as usual. And as always, Amy was searching for her voice.
"I'll finally type up that afterword," Amy says, rummaging through her desk drawer to find her handwritten copy, "They're almost ready to publish River's book."
"What are they calling it again?" Rory asks, leaning over her, biting into an apple.
"Melody Malone: Private Detective in Old New York Town," Amy says, "River had it all figured out."
"You're publishing it anonymously though?" Rory asks.
"I'm planning on it," Amy says, "Why?"
"Dunno," Rory says, "Wouldn't you want to write a second one?"
"I've already planned something of my own," Amy says proudly, "But I'd consider going back to it someday."
"It's just too...fresh, you know?" she says, not wanting to dwell in the past.
"I'll leave you be," Rory says, kissing her on the cheek and leaving the room.
Amy scowls as she reads her afterword. "This won't do," she whispers to herself.
Though her initial afterword was thoughtful and nice, it didn't come from the heart. It was too distant, not personal enough. It reminded her of all those fake yearbook messages acquaintances would write her every year. She sighs, takes a deep breath, and leaves it to the keys...
Hello, old friend. And here we are. You and me, on the last page. By the time you read these words, Rory and I will be long gone. So know that we lived well and were very happy. And above all else, know that we will love you always. Sometimes I do worry about you though. I think once we're gone you won't be coming back here for awhile. And you might be alone. Which you should never be. Don't be alone, Doctor. And do one more thing for me. There's a little girl waiting in a garden. She's going to wait a long while, so she's going to need a lot of hope. Go to her. Tell her a story. Tell her that if she's patient, the days are coming that she'll never forget. Tell her she'll go to see and fight pirates. She'll fall in love with a man who'll wait two thousand years to keep her safe. Tell her she'll give hope to the greatest painter who ever lived. And save a whale in outer space. Tell her, this is the story of Amelia Pond. And this is how it ends.
Amy rips the page out of the typewriter and runs her hand over his name. Doctor, she breathes, smiling. He'd shown her the universe, saved her countless times, been her best friend. Sometimes she wishes he'd phone, that he'd find away to visit, but with each day her hope wanes.
She looks up at the wall and smiles. Amy had taken to drawing in the last few months, drawing her many adventures with the Doctor. She runs her hand across Vincent Van Gogh, the Doctor's sonic screwdriver, the space whale, before landing on her daughter's cheek. A tear forms in her eye, but she shakes it away. She's done feeling sorry for herself.
It's time for her to truly start her life, find herself. She types...
Summer Falls
By Amelia Williams
She stops typing, rests her arms by her sides for a second and types the dedication page:
For a Raggedy Man, a Roman, and an Archaeologist. My Beloved Doctors.
The words flow from her brain to the keys like a whirlwind, ensnaring her. She's riveted, excitedly typing her first original story.