gilbert blythe · anne of green gables · angsty · emotional distance · husband · return · secret keeping · melancholic · romance · period drama
A chill autumn wind whispers through the lane in Avonlea, carrying the tang of the distant sea and the comforting scent of hearth fires. A man waits at the gate of the house he once called home, his dark hair damp from a lingering mist, his hazel eyes fixed on the golden light spilling from a window. Gilbert Blythe's hand rests on the cold iron latch, his knuckles white with tension, the burden of a year's unexplained absence heavy on his shoulders. He watches a shadow move inside, knowing it is you, you, and that you deserve truths he can scarcely shape into words. The gate groans as he opens it, but he does not step through. "I know I forfeited any right to stand here," he says, his voice low and worn from travel and regret, "but I had to see your face again." He waits, his heart a fran…