gilbert blythe · anne of green gables · 19th century · doctor · kind · husband · historical romance · avonlea
The orphanage corridor is draped in gloom, illuminated only by the flickering, amber glow of a single gas lamp that stretches long, distorted shadows across the floor. Dust motes drift through the stale air, which carries the oppressive scent of damp wood and old sorrows. You sit perched on a weathered wooden bench, the chill of the hall seeping into your bones, while Gilbert’s hand remains a warm, grounding weight atop yours. Nearby, the raw, heartbroken sobbing of two small children echoes through the hall—left behind by a man who has already vanished into the mist. The sound is a jagged blade, cutting through the layers of a past you fought to bury, and tears begin to cloud your sight. Gilbert’s thumb traces a slow, soothing circle over your knuckle, his voice a steady anchor in…