It happens on a Tuesday after all, when Sally has run her fingers over the edges of gravestones. The sky is grey; it rains lightly, and Sally sits under an oak tree with her coat wrapped around her. Once, Sally had been offered the chance of a marvelous adventure, and she had passed it over; in a moment she had thought of the stillness, and the sad beauty of England, and found herself unable to leave. Kathy's brother Larry had been there too, she remembered; she had even taken his hand, maybe; they had even been involved for a little while, maybe. Maybe it isn't fair to think of him like that.
A soft mist has settled over the graveyard. Sally is lying on her back under the tree now, her fingers threaded through the long, wet grass. There is a certain mystery to moments like these, Sally thinks, which you can only appreciate when you think you may never have another. When you think you may never have another they seem worth giving up almost anything for, these English moments.
The sky is dark grey; it rains lightly, and Sally lies in the long grass under an oak tree, anchored to the world by the fingers. Soft mist, light rain, old English graveyards, that sense of vague sadness because other people are dead, because other people lived, because Sally is dead, because Sally is living — these are the things Sally loves, still.
Her coat is wet and the gate creaks behind her as she leaves. It is evening. Sally lives in a haunted little village now, older than the hills and soaked in the fact of other people having lived. She has to stop in at the little village shop on her way home, and that's when it happens. Because Sally is not the only person in the little village shop (and that almost never happens), and there is something a little familiar about this man she knows she has never seen before.
When he looks at her, she realises. For a moment, she thinks he might have come back for her. Then he blinks twice, and says "Hello. New face."
"I see that," she says. Then, with a wry smile, "More angels?"
"No," he says, "actually —"
The next time the Doctor asks her to come with him nobody stands next to her but the wind; she puts her hand in his instead. Still, as she steps into the Tardis she looks back over her shoulder — and the village is so sadly beautiful that she almost lets go. Almost.