It’s funny, I thought, if you could hear me, I could hang on, somehow. Silly me. Silly old Doctor. When you wake up, you’ll have a mum and dad, and you won’t even remember me. Well, you’ll remember me a little. I’ll be a story in your head. And that’s okay; we’re all stories, in the end. Just make it a good one, eh? Because it was, you know, it was the best: A daft old man, who stole a magic box and ran away. Did I ever tell you that I stole that? Well, I borrowed it; I was always going to take it back. Oh, that box, Amy, you’ll dream about that box. It’ll never leave you. Big and little at the same time, brand-new and ancient, and the bluest blue, ever. And the times we had, eh? Would’ve had. Never had. In your dreams, they’ll still be there. The Doctor and Amy Pond and the days that never came. The cracks are closing. But they can’t close properly until I’m on the other side. I don’t belong here anymore. I think I’ll skip the rest of the rewind; I hate repeats. Live well. Love Rory. Bye bye, Pond.