Upon This Rock Will I Break Myself,Â
  Until It Shows Me Your Beloved Face
It started with the tune the Doctor had strummed out in that American diner, but of course it didn’t stop there. The gap in his memory was too large to be contained by one song, his grief too complex for a simple progression of chords. The ache he felt for something lost and just out of reach poured through his guitar and out the TARDIS’s amps, reverberating against the walls, muffled here by books, reflected there by metal, until the sound surrounded him. Consumed him. And still the anguish persisted.
His memory faded until there was nothing left but the grief and the music, even the waitress and the story he’d told her reduced to vague impressions, but the pain only compounded. As that ache continued to grow, so did the music, adding up to reams of songs, all sharing a melody, a single theme tying one to the next, that lilting tune he’d first discovered in that diner that was in Nevada but should have been in Utah. Maybe some of them become songs, the waitress had said, in a voice he no longer remembered. Those chords felt like the closest thing to memory he had left, the nearest thing to truth in the shattered shambles of his life.
Clara. Maybe the melody was the shape of her smile, or the sway in her step, the spark of adventure in her eye, or her courage and kindness. Was that some edge of true memory there, or was it just that all those dear to him were kind and courageous? He’d lost companions before, people he’d loved, mourned them for years, and yet never felt this kind of hole. Never felt the need for a neural block, either.
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