A/N: Again, nothing new - just reposted. And thanks to everyone who reviewed and faved, there were some lovely comments for this :D
My mummy is the best storyteller in the world. Every night at eight o'clock when I am sent up to bed, my mummy comes up with me to tuck me in and kiss me goodnight. I ask for a story and she makes it out that she can't be bothered – that she's too tired, but I see that spark in her eye and I know she enjoys telling her stories just as much as I enjoy listening to them. So she turns on the lamp, sits by my bed, and she begins.
Every night it is a different tale, always more exciting and extraordinary than the night before. She tells tales of monsters and far away worlds, or of a land before I was born. The setting and situation always changes, but one thing always stays the same. The man in the blue box. He's the hero. He's fearless, brave, smart and funny. He always saves the day. Always leaves with a smile on his face, ready for whatever the universe can throw at him next. He can go anywhere and to anytime in his blue box. But he is alone.
Always alone in that large, empty room.
My mummy sometimes cries when she's finished her story, but when I ask her why she says she doesn't know. She laughs and says she just gets carried away with herself. I ask her how she thinks up of her stories and she says she dreams them. I dream of him too; the tall man in the long coat. I dream that I meet him, that I travel with him in his blue box – but he's not real.
I heard my daddy telling my mummy that she should write a book with all her stories. He says she would make a lot of money. My mummy always says she will, but she never does. I hope she doesn't because they're our stories. It's our blue box. He's our hero.
He's my Doctor.