Mickey always warned her not to go back to that street corner. “He said to let it fade away,” her childhood friend chastised. “So let it. Bury the box, Rose. Bury that part of your life. It’s over.”
Of course, Rose Tyler never listened. Once a week, she walked the three or four blocks from her flat to where the TARDIS stood, waiting for her. She never went in, though. She stood outside it, stroked the wood panels reverently, said a small prayer for her fallen friends, then left. Went about the rest of her day.
And the years went on. She moved away, and her weekly sojourn became monthly, then annual, until she became too old to make the trip alone. The old box became something of a local curiosity, and many stories wove through the area of its origin, but only one old woman living just outside London knew the truth.
On her eighty-fifth birthday, her grandson took her to see the box one last time. With his help, she stood before it and pressed trembling lips to the door, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. There was still life left in the old box, she could feel it beneath her fingers.
“Goodbye, old friend,” she whispered, before her grandson helped her back to his car.
Two weeks later, Rose Tyler passed away in the comfort of her home, surrounded by her family. The life she’d lived had been fantastic, just as her Doctor had wanted.
The story of the box died with her.
(via suckmybenedict)
Mickey always warned her not to go back to that street corner. “He said to let it fade away,” her childhood friend chastised. “So let it. Bury the box, Rose. Bury that part of your life. It’s over.”
Of course, Rose Tyler never listened. Once a week, she walked the three or four blocks from her flat to where the TARDIS stood, waiting for her. She never went in, though. She stood outside it, stroked the wood panels reverently, said a small prayer for her fallen friends, then left. Went about the rest of her day.
And the years went on. She moved away, and her weekly sojourn became monthly, then annual, until she became too old to make the trip alone. The old box became something of a local curiosity, and many stories wove through the area of its origin, but only one old woman living just outside London knew the truth.
On her eighty-fifth birthday, her grandson took her to see the box one last time. With his help, she stood before it and pressed trembling lips to the door, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. There was still life left in the old box, she could feel it beneath her fingers.
“Goodbye, old friend,” she whispered, before her grandson helped her back to his car.
Two weeks later, Rose Tyler passed away in the comfort of her home, surrounded by her family. The life she’d lived had been fantastic, just as her Doctor had wanted.
The story of the box died with her.
(via suckmybenedict)
Posted 3 months ago 23,844 notes View high resolution
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