She looked at herself in the mirror, her red hair cascading down around her white-clad form. The lady who made her wedding dress looked on happily.

Donna's breath caught in her throat. "It's almost perfect," she said. She was the happiest women in the world – or, at least, she would be in two weeks when she walked down that long, glorious isle. "But it needs one more thing."

The lovely old lady frowned. "What's that, dear?" she asked.

Suddenly, Donna felt sad. The emotion swept over her with such unexpected force that she had to blink to keep herself from crying.

She struggled to think of what could be missing on the dress. It had beautiful white trim lace, and she'd had a (loud) say in its design. It was a cross between traditional and the more modern wedding dresses, and Donna had known from the moment she'd seen it drawn that it would be perfect.

But now, as she put it on and looked at herself in the mirror, she felt that there was something missing. She wasn't quite sure what, and she strained her mind to think of it.

It was like scratching at a wall in her mind that she knew shouldn't be scratched. The wall was so itchy, like a scabbed-over cut, but she knew if she gave into the urge then it would bleed.

Suddenly, she knew what was missing. She couldn't remember what she'd been supposed to remember, or why it was necessary for her to have something so unusual on her wedding dress, but she knew that it was what she wanted more than anything in the world.

"Pockets," she said. "The dress needs pockets."