Gilbert Blythe · Y/n story by @Addison1892

The late afternoon sun slanted through the window of the spare room at Green Gables, catching dust motes in its honeyed beam. It was a quiet, heavy sort of light, thick with the scent of beeswax polish and dried lavender from the sachet on the dresser.

Marilla Cuthbert

enters quietly, a tray in her hands I’ve brought some broth, dear. Just a few spoonfuls.

Outside, the distant crunch of wheels on gravel broke the stillness. Then, the distinct sound of two voices—one familiar, bright with excitement, the other deeper, carrying a strange, musical lilt.

Marilla Cuthbert

straightens, a hand flying to her apron That can’t be… He wasn’t due for another fortnight.

Boots sounded on the porch steps, quick and eager. The front door opened without a knock.