Rose leans against the wall, wiping away tears, going into shock. Peter, Jackie, and Mickey watch, staring. Memory, knowledge, will. Now, who will stand on either hand and keep the bridge with me? Mickey Smith. Jackie Tyler. Peter Tyler. They join hands, and they watch Rose in her grief, waiting to catch her when she finally falls.
In the black, the Doctor's voice rings out, so softly. Like Tennyson at Christmas; reverent. He calls her name: "Rose?" She's sleeping in a house of Steel, a soft bedroom. It's been at least a year. When she speaks to us, she sounds like she's still breaking. "Last night I had a dream." She awakens. "I heard a voice, and it was calling my name." She opens her eyes, sits up, at attention. The world seems a restless place for a moment, until she thinks of her face that Christmas, looking back at her. He calls her name. Mickey was summoned; by the Tyler fireside she told them -- Mickey, Jackie, Peter -- about her dream. How he called her name. "Anyone else would think I was mad, but not those three. They believed it. Because they've met the Doctor. So they listened to the dream." He calls her name. It's still dark when the four of them leave the house, fully dressed, all packed up. "Got into Dad's old Jeep, and off we went. Just like the dream said." They started to walk, and soon they were running. Daylight now, driving down a long country road. Following the voice across the water. "Kept on driving, hundreds and hundreds of miles. Because he's calling." He calls her name. She follows her star. The family stands on a bleak white beach. The TARDIS sings, now. Her heart is broken, too.
Rose walks across the sand: "Here I am at last. And this is the story of how I died." She comes to a stop, and out of the mist comes a Doctor. Slightly translucent. Remember the Gamestation? "Let this old box gather dust"? Slightly translucent. "Where are you?" Inside the TARDIS, he says, from a long way away. "There's one tiny little gap in the Universe left, just about the close. And it takes a lot of power to send this projection. I'm in orbit around a supernova!" He laughs softly. "I'm burning up a sun, just to say goodbye." It's true: she's orbiting. It's beautiful. "You look like a ghost," Rose says, shaking her head. Ghosts. The Doctor adjusts something on the TARDIS console with his screwdriver, and comes through more clearly. But a footprint doesn't look like a boot: Rose raises her hand to his face. "I'm still just an image. No touch," he says. Her voice trembles: "Can't you come through properly?" The whole thing would fracture. Two Universes would collapse. "So?" She's only barely joking; only barely hanging on. The Doctor smiles, and he and Rose look. At each other. Memorizing.