The swirling lights die down. The world is silent. Rory's hand in hers is clutching tight, and she can't tell which of them it is that's still shaking.
There's a stranger lying on the ground outside the front door of her house. No, not her house; her parents' house, now. She can remember a world where this house was hers alone, but this isn't that world anymore.
She can remember a world where the Doctor -- her Doctor -- died, much older and not old enough, shot by a terrified little girl who was born too many light years away from home, who thought she had no parents and didn't know that was strange. This isn't that world anymore, either.
Rory is breathing in short, sharp pants. Rory, who lived two thousand years and remembers it even though he shouldn't, and Amy Pond, who remembers everything she shouldn't, because the world whispered its secrets through her dreams for so many years. They know too much about how time can change, the pair of them. How love sometimes means terrible things, and how sometimes you must, absolutely must, be brave.
There's a strange man lying on the ground outside her door. Her Doctor is dead, and a woman she loved without ever understanding -- she never even existed. But no one is going to die for good, two hundred years down his own twisty convoluted timeline, and no little girl is going to walk out of the water, terrified and all alone.
In the baby carrier, Melody Pond, who is never going to grow up to be a superhero, whimpers in her sleep. Amy looks to the side, sees Rory's other hand come up to cup the back of her head, soothing and warm and safe.
Soon this man on the ground is going to wake up. She doesn't know how much he's going to remember, just at first, if he's going to recognize them, if he's going to remember what happened. If they're going to watch his face while he realizes, while he puts together how they all got here, everything they've done in the last few weeks, and realizes he taught them a little too much about changing things that should never be changed. That maybe even he should be wary of picking up strangers just because they seem nice.
She wonders if he's going to ask for fish fingers and custard. He probably won't like them. New palate and all.
She'll feed him if he asks, though. She'll hug her daughter while her husband looks him over, checking for any leftover damage (dying can be so hard on you, after all; she remembers that.) She'll look him in the eye when he asks -- if he asks -- if they knew what they were doing, if this is what they meant for, this world where her Doctor is dead and the woman he loved is, too. She thinks he'll understand, and she doesn't think he'll forgive them.
When he leaves, she'll sit in her kitchen with her little family, and wait for her parents to come home. In the morning maybe they'll go looking for a house, a nice quiet village where monsters and aliens don't lurk, far away from any old folks' homes. Their daughter will stay behind and get to know her grandparents -- well, perhaps not. Perhaps it'll take a while before they're willing to let her out of their sight.
At night they won't look up too often. They've had their fill of stars.