They say miracles don't happen. They say the Universe doesn't care. Not about those who spend thousands of years trying to save it. The Doctor knew it better than anyone. Knew it the moment his home planet caught fire before his eyes. And remembered ever since.

He remembered it the day he gave one of his lives to save the girl he loved, the girl who had just ended the Time War once and for all. Or so he thought.

He remembered it the day the Daleks and Cybermen were sucked into the Void. Together with her.

He remembered it the day Earth was safe once more, but the last one of his kind was dying in the Doctor's arms.

He remembered it the day Davros was defeated by the woman who could never remember what she had done.

He remembered it the day he collapsed before that very special girl's eyes, and she asked if he had had too much to drink.

He remembered it the day he brought back the Universe. A Universe where he wasn't.

He remembered it the day his wife refused to kill him.

He remembered it the day he stared at the grave of his best friends. Friends who had lived a good life, but without him.

He remembered it the day he gave her that screwdriver. Their second-before-last meeting.

He remembered it the day the TARDIS key hit the floor, while it's owner was already falling down. And down. And down.

But there came a day when the Universe decided to pay off debts it didn't owe. The day not one but two planets were left safe in the sky. One in the Solar system. The other in the constellation of Kasterborous. One lonely wanderer had one more home to return to.