The Weight of Stars

The TARDIS lurched sideways, and I grabbed the coral strut nearest to me, my knuckles white against the organic architecture. The time rotor wheezed and groaned above us, casting everything in that familiar golden light.

"Sorry about that!" the Doctor called out cheerfully, his hands dancing across the hexagonal console panels. "Bit of temporal turbulence around the Medusa Cascade. Nothing to worry about!"

Nothing to worry about. I'd learned that phrase usually meant exactly the opposite when it came to the Doctor.

The ship settled with one final shudder, and I cautiously released my grip. Through the scanner, I could see we'd materialized somewhere impossibly beautiful—a crystalline city floating among nebulae that painted the sky in shades of purple and gold I'd never seen before.

"Where are we?" I asked, moving to stand beside him at the console.

"Gallifreya Secunda," he said softly, his voice carrying that weight it sometimes got when he spoke of places that existed in the margins of legend. "A colony world, established during the Time War. One of the few that survived."

I watched his reflection in the scanner screen—the way his eyes went distant, somewhere between memory and regret. The Doctor had shown me wonders beyond counting, but moments like this reminded me that every adventure carried the gravity of loss.

"The people here," he continued, adjusting his bow tie with that nervous energy he got when trying not to dwell on the past, "they developed a unique relationship with time itself. Not manipulation, like the Time Lords, but... conversation."

"Conversation?"

He grinned suddenly, that brilliant smile that could light up solar systems. "They learned to listen to what time was trying to tell them. Fascinating, really. Like having a chat with the universe's memory."

Before I could ask what he meant, the TARDIS doors swung open on their own, letting in air that tasted of starlight and possibilities. The Doctor was already bounding toward the exit, his coat tails flapping behind him.

"Come on then!" he called back to me. "Time's a-wasting. Or rather, time's a-conversing, and it would be terribly rude to keep it waiting!"

I followed him out into the crystal city, where beings of living light moved between spires that hummed with the sound of centuries. Above us, three moons hung like pearls against the nebula, and I could swear I felt the weight of ages settling on my shoulders like a comfortable shawl.

This was what I'd signed up for when I'd stepped into that blue box—not just adventure, but wonder. The kind that changes you, molecule by molecule, until you're not quite the same person who first heard that ancient wheezing sound and felt your heart skip with possibility.

The Doctor was already deep in animated conversation with one of the light-beings, his hands gesturing wildly as he attempted to explain something about temporal mechanics. The being's form flickered between colors I had no names for, and I realized it was laughing—or at least, doing something analogous to laughter.

"Ah, brilliant!" the Doctor exclaimed, spinning around to face me as I approached. "They're telling me about the Great Listening—a ceremony where the entire city goes quiet for exactly thirteen minutes while time itself speaks. Apparently, last week it warned them about a solar flare that would have wiped out their northern continent!"

"Time... warned them?" I asked, still struggling with concepts that would have seemed impossible six months ago, before I'd started traveling with a madman in a box.

"Oh yes!" The light-being's voice resonated directly in my mind, warm as summer rain. "Time remembers everything—past, present, future. Sometimes it shares those memories, if you know how to listen."

The Doctor's eyes lit up with that particular gleam that usually meant we were about to get into trouble. "They're having another Listening tonight. During the triple moon alignment. Something about the gravitational resonance amplifying the temporal echoes."

"Doctor," I said carefully, recognizing that tone. "What are you thinking?"

"Well," he said, bouncing on his toes, "I might be able to enhance their listening apparatus with a bit of TARDIS technology. Imagine what we might hear! The birth songs of galaxies, the final thoughts of dying stars, the secret history of—"

A deep, thrumming sound cut through the air, and every light-being in the vicinity suddenly grew brighter, their forms pulsing in unison.

"What's that?" I asked.

The being we'd been speaking with dimmed slightly, concern flickering through its luminous form. "An echo," it said softly. "Something approaches that should not be. Something that makes time... scream."

The Doctor's expression shifted in an instant, all playfulness vanishing. "How long until your Great Listening?"

"Three hours," came the reply.

"Right then." The Doctor grabbed my hand, his fingers warm and reassuring despite the sudden urgency in his voice. "Change of plan. We're not enhancing anything—we're going to find out what's making time scream, and we're going to stop it."

As we ran back toward the TARDIS, the crystal spires around us began to resonate with something that sounded almost like fear. I squeezed the Doctor's hand tighter, feeling that familiar thrill of terror and excitement that came with knowing that once again, the universe needed saving.

And once again, I was exactly where I belonged—running through impossible places with the most impossible man I'd ever met, ready to face whatever darkness threatened the light.

The TARDIS doors slammed shut behind us, and the time rotor began its ancient song. Somewhere in the vortex between moments, adventure was waiting.

After all, in the TARDIS, next was always an adventure waiting to unfold.