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Chapter Text

Anne Shirley Cuthbert’s arms were full of white narcissus when the first call came in.

Springtime in Queens brought an abundance of the white-petaled flowers, and she had plans for the bundle tucked securely in her arms. She would overfill the vases in her quaint off-campus apartment with them, placing them on tables and in windowsills. Twisting the star-like flowers into crowns for her roommates simply for the sake of it would come next. And, if she still had a few to spare, she would braid a few into her auburn hair solely for the joy of it. With her decidedly lack of free hands and precious visions in her mind, she missed the call. She hurried up the steps of her building, fingers straining to find enough freedom to pull the door open.

The second call came, meeting a similar fate as the first as she slipped into the elevator.

A third vibrated incessantly in her back pocket as she slipped a key into her lock, but that, too, was left unanswered by the time her hands became free of the white narcissus after being dumped, with care, on her kitchen counter.

But her phone was in her hands when the fourth, and final, call came in.

“Marilla,” She said brightly, “you’ll never guess what I found while on my way back from cla–”

“Anne…” Marilla’s voice was strained, thick with emotion.

“What’s wrong, Marilla?” She asked, heart racing in a way reserved for the unknown.

An agonizing silence stretched across the phone call. Then, a sniffle.

“It’s Matthew.” Marilla responded, her voice a mere whisper. “He’s–He is… Anne, Matthew is… He’s gone. He’s gone, Anne.”

The world tipped on its axis, spinning her into chaos. Anne’s knees buckled as she sank to the floor of her kitchen, phone still pressed to her ear as fear and disbelief coursed through her veins. Her hand covered her mouth as she shook her head as though Marilla were right in front of her.

“No, you’re wrong.” She said defiantly, still shaking her head. Or maybe it was her whole body that was shaking. “You don’t believe… I mean, you can’t think Matthew is–is–”

She couldn’t even think of the word, much less actually speak it aloud. It didn’t belong in a sentence about Matthew Cuthbert.

“My girl, I am so sorry.” Dejection was heavy in her voice. “His heart– It just had enough. It gave out.”

Anne’s chest tightened, a crushing pain that made it hard to breathe. Images of Matthew’s gentle smile, his kind eyes, and his quiet moments of fatherly love and wisdom flooded her mind. The man who had given her a home, her father, was gone. Dead. Well, there was the word she so feared.

“Come home, Anne.”

“I will.” Anne choked out, her voice trembling, staring numbly up at the flowers on her kitchen counter. “Right now, I will.”

It was a long time before Anne could love the sight or smell of white narcissus again.

Chapter Text

Anne arrived in Avonlea when she was eleven years old.

She rode in the backseat of her third social worker’s car for the trek there. She had no possessions but the clothes on her back to accompany her on the ride. Anne had had belongings of her own, a few threadbare articles of clothing and monetarily obsolete objects that were dear to her, that she’d stuffed unceremoniously into trash bags for the new placement in Avonlea. But they’d mysteriously vanished between breakfast and her social worker arriving to pick her up.

The adults had referred to it as an unfortunate accident. They thought her belongings may have been misplaced, possibly thrown out by accident. Anne knew neither option had been correct. It had been a deliberate move, a farewell present from the older girls who notoriously ridiculed her as a favored pastime. They’d snickered behind their palms as the trash cans were searched, giving themselves away to anyone paying attention.

Most adults seldom do, though, so their antics were never reprimanded.

The items lost that day were a bittersweet footnote in the overall excitement of the day. Anne had longed to visit Avonlea after hearing stories of it, and finding out her newest placement was there had trumped everything else.

Abnormally early summer heat had clung to the car window, and she burned her fingers each time she pressed them to the glass in excitement. There were so many things to point out during that first drive here, so many things she wanted to take in. Lush, green fields. Trees full of leaves. A lake of shiny waters. Avonlea was a place that belonged in a work of fiction, and she would be living there?

She thought her time in Avonlea would be short-lived. Most placements for a ‘troubled girl’ such as herself often were. Anne was habitually referred to as ‘too much’ of something. Too imaginative. Too talkative. Too loud. If it wasn’t one excuse, it was another. She had grown used, if not entirely desensitized, to the constant upheaval from homes, schools, and parental figures in her life.

She had no idea that Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert would be the last. That they would be the ones to do the unspeakable: adopt her.

Matthew had been the one to push for it, had called her his daughter–something so foreign to her she hadn’t fully grasped it the first time he had said it– long before any paperwork had been signed.

Now, that first ride to Avonlea is all she could think about as she drove down those same roads eleven year old Anne did. She was all grown up now, but she didn’t feel it. If she were to look in a mirror at that moment, she wouldn’t be surprised if it was a thin, scared, hyperactive foster child staring back at her.

In a cruel twist of fate, Anne also had no belongings with her.

She had been in such a haste to leave, she had abandoned any thought to pack a bag. Even the white narcissus still remained, abandoned, on her kitchen counter for her roommates to find. A small, niggling voice in the back of her head—one not yet consumed by the grief—hoped one of her friends would put them in a vase so they wouldn’t wilt in her absence.

The larger part of her, the grief-ridden one, did not care about the flowers. It only cared about getting home. Getting to Green Gables. To Marilla.

To Matthew, it screamed.

But he was gone. The version of him she needed, anyway.

Country roads eventually eased into the occasional farmland Anne recognized as belonging to her neighbors. Her heart beat a funny, erratic tune in her chest the closer she got. Anne caught sight of the Blythe apple orchard, and had the heavy realization that no one besides Marilla knew where she was headed right now.

She’d neglected to tell anyone about Matthew, in fact.

She would tell them when she got there. She would call Diana, tell her to quietly let the rest of their roommates know about the news. She’s send a text to Cole. Maybe an email or two to her professors to explain her inevitable absence, if she got a moment. And, of course, she would tell Gilbert. He would be first on her list.

If Bash didn’t get to him first.

From experience, she knew Rachel Lynde would ensure everyone in their small community knew the news of Matthew’s passing by tomorrow. At the latest.

When Green Gables came into view, the grief and anxiety overrode all the usual happy feelings associated with going home. She came to a gradual stop near the front of the house, a jagged, shaky breath rasping from her lips when her first thought was ‘oh, Matthew’s home’ when she saw his banged up truck parked in the dirt driveway. .

Anne cut the engine, hands trembling.

It was dusk, the last of the day’s light fading away, and she found she couldn’t get out of the car. Since the phone call from Marilla, there had been this need to go, go, go. But now, sitting in the car outside of her home, she was terrified to face what was behind the front door.

She had a sudden, horrifying thought that she would walk through the front door and find Matthew still there. Lying in his bed, slumped in his chair, crumpled on the floor. The image was paralyzing, even as the rational part of her brain tried to break her free. She knew Marilla had called her hours ago to tell her what happened, and that certainly meant he would have been taken away by now.

But where would they have taken him? The morgue? A funeral home? For someone who had lost so many, Anne realized with a jolt that she was woefully unprepared for this.

Anne opened the door, needing air, and finally pulled herself out of the car. Too many thoughts clouded her brain, and she focused on the house until they quieted down. There was comfort to be found staring up at the house she’d grown up in. But as she’d grown, it became clear that her beloved Green Gables had aged alongside her.

It had been an unusually dry season that year, and the grass had suffered the most from the drought. What should have been a lush, vibrant carpet of deep green had faded to a patchwork of browns and withered spots, the earth beneath cracked and thirsty. The steep, gable roof in which the house had received its name was missing several tiles, and the once-pristine white paint had chipped away in scattered patches, exposing the worn wood beneath.

Anne loved it all the same. She might love it more for all its quirks and imperfections. She lost herself in the quiet nostalgia of her home until the telltale squeak of the front door opening startled her back into the present. Her eyes followed the trickle of light pouring out until she found Marilla’s frame in the doorway.

“Anne?” She called, stiff and quiet.

“I’m here, Marilla, I’m here.” Anne responded, finally accepting avoiding reality as being over.

She pushed herself forward, not quite walking but also not running toward Marilla. When she got to her, the older woman opened her arms to her without hesitation. Marilla was never a hugger, and Anne might have allowed herself to be surprised if they weren’t in the present situation.

So, instead, Anne walked into Marilla’s waiting embrace.