Three years, seventeen days and twenty-three minutes.
One hundred fifty-nine weeks.
Eleven thousand thirteen days. Every one had twenty-four hours, each with sixty minutes - all in all, ninety-six million one hundred sixty-four thousand five hundred eighty dragging seconds.
It's over. I can't believe it. Three years ago I tumbled out of the TARDIS into a bed of English bracken, my memories stolen, my face and body no longer my own, into an exile longer than the life of hope.
It's finished. I built my new life from the scraps I found, working with unfamiliar hands to learn again the secrets of time travel. Those hands are scarred now with every lesson I learned - the long scratch from a badly trimmed wire, the knot where a tool went awry, the nicks and scrapes and calluses that make these hands my own.
Three years trapped in one place, one time. Now they're done. I can wander the universe again, travel at nobody's call but my own. I can feel the tides of Time again, washing round me, changing their rhythm and pattern as they dance, sweeping me away as they did once before when I was young.
Am I dreaming? Is the nightmare really over? Am I free?