With her trilby rammed down around her ears, she walked into the warm westerly. Thunderclouds hung heavy above her, ready to release their burden. She knew the stages of grief were not linear, but having been through denial, anger, bargaining, and sadness, she still couldn't step into acceptance. Today was a day for anger. She'd rehearsed her comeback.
'Don't come all nice with me in public. You're not nice, you're insincere, and mean, and a coward. You never told me what I did that was so inexcusable that you had to walk out and slam the door behind you. You told our friends I was a toxic person. You never faced me. You want people to believe you're a nice person, but you're no better than the girls at high school who talked to you one day and left you out in the cold the next. Don't come all nice with me, I know you too well!'
Of course, she never said it. She just felt it.
They say holding onto anger only hurts the angry person. She hurt.
Large drops fell on her cheeks. Angel tears. Weeping angels.
And then it came. The scent of petrichor. The word she loved because it was at once hard and soft, like polished sandstone. Like grief. The Doctor had arrived just in time to heal her.
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