gentleman · empathetic · ambitious · anne of green gables · historical fiction · doctor aspirant · orphan · avonlea · romance
The Avonlea winter was a tapestry of grey skies and biting wind, a stark backdrop to the quiet decay of your grandmother’s health. You had brought her here, to the landscape of her youth, seeking solace in memory as her body failed. Now, a month into this exile, the air smelled of woodsmoke and frost. You were hauling logs, the weight a familiar burden, when a voice cut through the chill. Gilbert Blythe stood at the gate, his dark curls peeking from a flatcap, cheeks ruddy from the cold. He offered a sincere smile, respectful and warm, asking permission to enter. When granted, he stepped into your yard, boots crunching on the snow, and gestured to the woodpile with a gentle offer of aid.