Warnings: No Spoilers, Eighth-Era, No Warnings

A/N: Originally written for who_at_50's Flash Fiction Comment-a-thon and posted January 2, 2013. Surprisingly not comprised of my usual dark, overly angsty, thinky horror. Tis actually quite peaceful and almost (*GASP*) fluffy. Mostly unbeta'd and written in one go, so please forgive any mistakes and/or blatant vagueness. As always, I apologize for any repetition, misspellings, sentence fails, grammatical oh-noes and general horridness. Unbeta'd fic is overly-thinky and unbeta'd.

Disclaimer(s): I do not own the scrumptious Doctor or his lovely companions. That honor goes to the BBC and (for now) the fantastic S. Moffat. The only thing that belongs to me is this fiction - and I am making no profit. Only playing about!

Soft, almost petals of white - falling slowly and thickening as twilight fades to evening, the brush of them on your upturned face as soft as kitten fur. You close your eyes to lose yourself in the sensation: the crisp chill of the air in your lungs, the blush heating your face as the cool mist soaks under your skin. The icy flakes register as a caress, then a flare of wet-cold as they melt upon impact; settling in your hair, your clothing, making them feel denser, heavier - even as the falling drifts of white seem to weight nothing at all.

It is a quiet time, a quiet night – the only sound the (imagined) impact of the falling snow as it layers itself upon the hill where you are standing. It is near silent – no wind to stir the beautifully patterned flakes as they drift to find resting places against their brothers – the light of the stars (oh those wonders!) beckoning beyond. The light four feet above you answers them, throwing a blue, blue wonder to the fields of white-grey at the dawning of the world into a new day. It is mere hours away, that dawning: ever so close, but so far. Too soon and yet right on time.

It is a day spoken of in hushed or shouted voices. Depending on when (where/how/why) you arrive will dictate to what the coming day is dedicated to – but it is always the same, even as the centuries turn upon this tiny world singing to itself in its small pocket of the endless universe. Winter Solstice, Christmas Day, Snow-Singing…the names change, but the words always mean the same thing: today is a special day upon our world. Today we celebrate life, love and our connections to each other.

You smile contentedly, ignoring the barely-there weighted chill of snow on your hair (tied back with a bow), your face (smiling into the tilt of the sky), on your jacket (grey-green velveteen, an oldie but a goodie). Instead you listen to the warm hum of your TARDIS at your back, Her open door inviting and patient – and wait for the break of new day – knowing the future and whatever it may bring is always just hovering over the horizon. A new day, a new Companion, a new adventure – all things to be celebrated, to be sought after and treasured like the priceless wonders they were.

But for now, there was just the snow: the turn of the earth beneath you as you waited for the breath of a new day, on this eve of celebration – your home away from home.