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He missed her fiercely. Funny thought, that, since she was standing in the next room. Donna was still here, still a part of the family, and he saw her every day. But the compassionate, confident, thoughtful woman she had become was gone, and Wilfred often found himself reminiscing about the wonderful granddaughter he had known for that short while. Oh, she remained his Donna; she always would. But occasionally memories of the talks they'd had beneath the open sky after she had met the Doctor intruded upon his thoughts.

She was on the phone again now, laughing loudly as she gossiped with one of her friends. He could hear the grating tone of her voice, and he knew her words were insipid. But she remained his granddaughter. He loved her, no matter how she spoke or acted.

Wilfred rubbed at his forehead, trying to assuage the headache he'd had for the past week or so. That must be why he was feeling the niggling annoyance with Donna. Truth be told, he was extremely grateful that she was back with him, that she was all right.

He knew that she was a hero, that she had saved countless lives during her tenure with the Doctor. He wished that he could tell her how proud he was, how much he admired the person she had grown into during those months. He couldn't, of course. The Doctor had made that fact very clear. A single mention of the TARDIS or the Time Lord would prove deadly to his granddaughter.

He and Sylvia had been careful, watching their words and keeping Donna away from situations that might nudge some shred of suppressed memory to the surface. It had been easier for Sylvia; within a few short days of Donna's return, she had slipped back into her old habits, berating her daughter, treating her as little more than a burden. Donna, of course, had responded in kind, snapping back at her mother with rolls of her eyes and rancorous retorts.

Wilfred's only sanctuary was his telescope and the panoply of stars above his head. He sat, eyes trained upon the dark and infinite canopy, for hours each night, and true to his word, given nearly three months ago, he thought of the Doctor with gratitude, awe, and gentle affection. Sometimes he saw a blue streak out of the corner of his eye, and once or twice he had squinted through the lens, convinced he would catch a glimpse of the ship. He had been disappointed to find only the night sky and the twinkling stars.

He understood that the Doctor could not return, at least not anywhere near Chiswick. Still, the thought that the Time Lord might pass by, just for a moment, was comforting.

Wilfred pressed his hands over his head; the ache had grown worse. He was chilled now, too, despite the temperate summer air. He sighed and covered the telescope. It was time to go back inside, back to Donna and Sylvia and their ordinary, prosaic lives.

The news was anything but ordinary. Wilfred sat stoically and listened to the neurologist's words, although he processed only fragments:

"…type of glioma… glioblastoma multiform, based on the optic nerve… inoperable, but we'll begin a course of radiation immediately… headaches and visual disturbances."

"Is that what caused his seizure?" Sylvia asked, her voice uncharacteristically subdued.

"Yes. There may be more, although we'll put you on an anti-seizure medication."

Sylvia touched Wilfred's arm, and he forced himself to turn his head and look at her. He smiled.

"It'll be all right," he said woodenly.

She shook her head, and he saw her blink rapidly several times. "But he says it can't be removed—"

"The radiation may help," the neurologist offered, though his tone was grave.

Wilfred patted Sylvia's hand. "Well, there, you see."

Additional words followed, but it all summed up to a less than optimistic prognosis. Wilfred and Sylvia walked out into the hallway. Both were quiet for a few moments, then she spoke.

"Oh God, I have to tell Donna."

Wilfred exhaled slowly. "No, I'll do it."

"You sure, Dad?"

"It'll be easier on her to hear it from me."

Sylvia nodded, and he knew she was relieved. Sharing the latest news about a cousin's romantic exploits or hideous new hair color was one thing; telling your daughter that her grandfather had only a few months to live was quite another.

He broke the news to her after dinner, while they were nibbling biscuits and sipping tea. At first Donna chortled, thinking he was telling some sort of morbid joke. However, he did not return her smile. He gripped her hands a bit tighter and focused his gaze upon her.

"Donna, no," he said.

"But you can't be—" she stammered. She shook her head violently, ripping her hands away. "No! That's not—you're not—Oh my God."

"It'll be all right," he said. "I've had a long life, a good life."

"No, don't talk like that. There's got to be something. Those idiots're probably mistaken, probably mixed up your results with someone else's. Happened to Nerys once. They told her she was pregnant, and she just about throttled her boyfriend 'cause he'd told her he couldn't have children. But it was all a big, flippin' mistake. That's what happened, I just know it. You have to call them back, get them to do the tests again—"

Wilfred smiled gently. "There's no mistake."

"Well, I think there is!" she cried. She pulled her phone from her pocket and punched savagely at the keys. "I know this bloke, Peter, who works at the hospital in the records department. I'm gonna have him look into this, see whose files those sodding gits mixed up…"

He was about to tell her to stop, to leave it alone, but she was already talking, barking out orders to the hapless clerk on the other end of the line. Wilfred finished his tea and walked outside to the sanctuary of the stars.

He was gazing at Scorpio when Donna quietly made her way toward him. She walked with soft steps, the gravity of the situation subduing her now she knew there had been no mistake.

She sat beside him and took his hand. He patted her wrist affectionately.

"Are you in pain?" she asked.

Wilfred shook his head. "No."

"Will you be? I mean later, once it's…" She choked back a sob.

"I don't know. There's medicine for that. It won't be so bad."

Tears streaked her cheeks. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, encouraging her to lean into him. She hiccupped a few sobs, then uttered, "That's the last thing you need, me going all weepy on you."

"It's all right, Donna. I don't mind."

She sniffled and snuggled into him. They sat without speaking for several minutes; no words were required. Wilfred's eyes moved back up to the sky. Sirius was bright tonight, brighter than he'd seen it in some time.

"Mum says they can't operate," Donna said softly, "but they're gonna try radiation. I think you should get a second, or maybe a third, opinion."

He ran a hand over her hair, only mildly surprised to notice the slight tremor in his fingers. "I saw the scan; he showed me where the tumor is."

"But someone else could have a different opinion, know of some new treatment or drugs or something."

The deep poignancy of her tone reminded him of the brave, empathetic girl he had known for those few months. Maybe it wasn't all gone; maybe a hint of that deeper sense of humanity remained.

She lifted her head to look at him, and he offered her a thin smile. Then he shifted his gaze upward again, pointing to the north. "Sirius looks close tonight," he commented.

"Granddad, please," she began.

"Shush now. Just look at those brilliant stars, stretching out into infinity."

She titled back her head, her own eyes trained on the celestial bodies. But her thoughts had not shifted. "I'm just saying—"

"Donna—"

"I'm just saying," she continued, undeterred, "that there must be someone else, some specialist who can help. You just have to find the right—"

"Look," he interjected mildly, "shooting star."

"—doctor," she finished, watching the brief streak of light across the sky.

He took her silence as an indicator of her acceptance of the situation. There was something about studying the sky, observing the grand phenomena of the limitless heavens, that proved calming, that helped one to realize the vastness of it all and the tiny, insignificant part each human played in the grand scheme of things.

Donna gasped, and Wilfred moved his gaze to her face. Her mouth was open, her eyes wide and staring upward.

"Donna?" he asked. "What is it?"

She blinked, slowly turning her head back toward him. "Dunno. I thought I saw something—up there. But… but there's only the stars."

"Yes, just the stars and planets, nothing more," he reassured her, trying to keep his voice calm.

"Time," she murmured almost dreamily. "Time and space, dimensions in time and space."

"Donna," he said sharply, "no, there's just space."

She gave her head a little shake then rubbed a hand across her brow. "Sorry, don't know what I was thinking."

"It's all right. This has been a long day. We could all use some sleep." He got to his feet slowly, fighting a small wave of dizziness. He extended his hand to his granddaughter.

She took it and rose, too. "Yeah."

They walked back to the house in silence. Wilfred stole a few glances at Donna. She had an odd expression on her face, one midway between confusion and concern.

As they stepped inside, he said, "Don't worry about your old granddad."

She kissed his cheek. "Can't help it."

She wiped a hand over her eyes and walked away.

To be continued...