It's probably been done, but here's my effort at an epilogue to 'The Day of the Doctor'. All credit to Spydurwebb for the inspiration!

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The Curator

In, and out. In. And out.

The Curator leans heavily on his cane as he moves through the gallery; checking the paintings, a closer eye on those few that require it. Evening is coming, and soon it will be time to leave, to go home.

Home.

A word with a truly double meaning for him. He cannot remember when it happened; the splitting of the atom, the parting of the ways; the division of self that led to this him, here. Certainly this is only one version of what might happen with this body - the young looking (but not young, no; far, far, from young) man in the bowtie is proof enough of that.

He breathes. In, and out.

There is no respiratory bypass in this body. No binary circulatory system, in spite of the echo of a beat he sometimes fancies he can feel in the right hand side of his chest. There will be no regeneration. He has perhaps ten, fifteen - maybe twenty years left if he is lucky. He will not outlive the woman he married; a thought that frightens him as much as it comforts, knowing that this him will never have to continue without her.

He wonders if she feels it too; this strange helix of memories, the pull of another life that happened, but did not happen at all. Does she know that their children are not truly theirs? Except they are, of course - who is to say which version of their timeline is the correct one? Deep down inside he knows she knows; but she accepts it anyway, and he loves her all the more for it.

He does not know his purpose here; whether the universe had its reasons for his creation. Perhaps she is the reason; not just a welcome side effect of this journey along the slow path, the very best of rewards for his patience.

In, and out.

Sometimes he feels the turning of the Earth beneath his feet; sometimes he feels time surrounding him, cocooning him in a never ending aura of past, present, future. And sometimes it is relegated down to a subconscious ticking by of the second hand. An almost human ignorance of the thing that dominates their lives despite their lack of understanding of how it really works.

He does not know what his purpose is. But he knows one thing; that today, after more than four centuries of pain, and guilt - today, finally, the Doctor knows that he did the right thing. He is not the Doctor; not this version of him. But he feels the lifting of the burden nonetheless.

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please let me know what you think!