In an old house in Nova Scotia, there is a cabinet. In this cabinet, there is a mirror. This mirror once housed a very special being: Anne Shirley's first window friend.
Anne had recently fallen in love with the play Hamlet, especially the character of Ophelia, who quickly became one of her favorite lovelorn maidens of all time. Her tragic tale and demise had tugged at Anne's heart like no story before. Drowning amidst the flowers, her "chanted snatches of old tunes" drawn from her heartbreak-induced madness floating up to the heavens to precede her arrival, could there be a more romantic way to perish? Simply whispering her name, O-phel-ia sent a thrill through her entire body. So when Anne had seen the perfect, spotless pane of glass showcasing the fine china in the cabinet in the upstairs hall and glimpsed a face a lot like her own staring back at her, she knew that it would be the perfect home for Ophelia.
The best part about Ophelia was that she was always sympathetic, always available as a listening ear. Ophelia never pursed her lips at her; she never accused her of stealing the sweets that Mrs. Thomas' children took all the time because they knew Anne would be blamed. Anne assured herself that Mrs. Thomas meant well, that she didn't intend to leave Anne blinking back tears whenever she reproached her for being such a wicked girl, despite the fact that she had "brought her up by hand." She just wanted to make her a better person, that was all.
Anne knew she was far too easily distracted and spent too much time with her head in the clouds instead of focusing on reality. If she could just work harder, not talk so much, be more practical, be better, maybe then she could be worthy of affection. Love was too much to hope for, of course. Even she, for all her fanciful ways, knew that. No one loved orphans, especially not her. The Thomases had taken her in out of Christian duty, and it was her job to reduce the burden she was to them as much as possible.
However, everything changed with the accident. Mr. Thomas was crushed under a train, suicide, if one believed the rumors, leaving his wife and children to fend for themselves. Mrs. Thomas' mother had generously allowed Mrs. Thomas and her children to come and live with her, but did not extend the invitation to Anne, saying that "she'd not have some deviant orphan living under her roof." Mrs. Thomas had fretted and moaned, but finally found a family to take her "problem" off her hands.
Finally, after a week of mourning, the day came for the cabinet to be emptied, the china to be packed up, and Anne to be sent away. She went, suitcase in hand, to the cabinet to say one last goodbye to Ophelia. Her bag held all that she owned, yet it still felt limp as the old, green rag she scrubbed the breakfast dishes with. She looked at the cabinet, its dishes all packed up neatly beside it.
The reality was obvious: the china was being sent away to a new home because it was valuable, Anne because she wasn't. She dragged her eyes from the dishes and up to the pane of glass. Ophelia's eyes stared back at her, wan and desolate. She dropped her head again. She started numbly toward the steps that would lead her back downstairs, then glanced again in the direction of the cabinet. After a second of hesitation, she slumped her shoulders and continued down the stairs, out the doorway, and into the buggy waiting to take her to her new home with the Hammonds.
Sometimes endings come dramatically, announcing their catastrophe with fanfare, other times they just quietly come and slip away again. Sometimes tragedy seems romantic, other times it just hurts.
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Author's Note: If you liked this story and/or have constructive criticism for me, please review; it will make me oh so happy!