When the Doctor dies, the whole universe goes out of its rhythm. All they have left of him are memories and dust on wood.
~
It'd been years since the TARDIS had moved from its place at the back of the building, near the upturned trash cans and drifting plastic bags. No one could remember the last time the Doctor had been seen, running around with his sonic screwdriver, bow tie, and multi-coloured yo-yo.
Since he had been caught by a starving Angel, the rest of the universe had felt his absence terribly, coming together to mourn for their lost saviour. They sang for the Doctor, for everything he'd done and tried to do for them. For every time he'd saved their worlds. Every time he'd made things right. They mourned for all those he'd left behind. All his old companions and assistants. All the friends he'd made without even realising it.
His TARDIS had closed itself off, locking its doors against every kind of key. Everyone that passed the box could tell its age. The paint was peeling. One white letter P was missing. And it's always easy to see dust on wood.
