[ The contentment Clara's felt at staying in a place like Yancai comes from one primary thing: knowing that her decision would make the Doctor proud. Not the bit about her job, but she helps where she can. Sneaking sweeties to kids, stepping in to teach stories, and keep people hoping for more. She likes her reputation of small but mighty. It's like the Doctor said: She's the Boss.

Clara's done outside for the day and returns home to her villa, wearing the gaudiest of rings on one hand and a tin of cookies in the other. She'll find the nearest roommate and offer a plain, but well-executed sugar cookie. ]

Feel like helping me reap the rewards of a good day of gossip?

[ Another day, another batch of people at the harbor with potential knowledge. There's a brief moment when someone steps in her path and while she would never actually demand anything of anyone, automatically they apologize as if they've done something awful. Waving it off, Clara smiles, all dimples, and carries on.

Just as she's about to hit the docks, right when one of the long piers comes into view, she's hit with a memory, of being on another dock, in another place. It comes and goes so quickly that she stumbles and has to lean against the nearest wall, closing her eyes, feeling faint. She's about the color of wallpaper paste and takes a few deep breaths in and out, wondering what the hell? with one hand pressed to her forehead. ]

[ Today, when Clara is making that same trip down to the docks, the sun glares in her eyes and her head feels like a knife split straight through it. But beneath that, she remembers a friend. A friend with so much red hair. And then it's gone again, but the pain isn't.

This time when she tries to stumble her way to the harbor (trying to find a place to sit) and someone bumps into her, she has the least Clara Oswald reaction imaginable. ]

Is there anyone here who can pay attention? Bloody hell.

[ She winces again and remembers more detail, a conversation on a train but no names yet, before the memory(?) is gone. Forehead still creased in pain she does feel guilty, but she also doesn't think she can do anything until the pain goes away, once again leaning against the nearest solid object. ]

ᴘᴀʀᴛ II
[ It's some time later in the day that Clara makes her way to the apothecary. Her headache hasn't quite abated, she needs something else, and she realizes she has no idea what she's looking for very quickly. Exhaling loudly, she rubs her forehead and then looks around for someone who seems like they know what they're looking at.

She's much kinder this time than she was to the poor person earlier. ]

Sorry, the clerk is busy and I want to find something fast. Know what gets rid of a migraine for good?

[ It's been a hell of a thing, trying to reconcile what Clara thought was her own decision with what her life actually is: stuck. Trapped. The good thing, at least, is that she knows she has friends here. She's been holed up in her room for the day, pretending to read when a woman appears; well appears, because this is undoubtedly a ghost. It's always ghosts.

You're going to be the next famous explorer, I think.

The voice—her mum's voice—is coming out of the ghost's mouth, and for a few seconds Clara is stunned into silence, eyes about as wide as they can get.

Your dad and I can't wait to get postcards from all over.

Except her mum's dead, Clara isn't famous, and she never sent postcards to her dad. When the woman in white pats her hand, it breaks the spell; Clara bolts out of her room and into the closest one, slamming the door shut behind her and pressing her back against it. She's in her pajamas and looks like...well, like she saw a ghost. ]