Another one of these stories without a real plot. But I just felt like writing something sad and full of feelings, so I hope you'll forgive me.
Anne ran up to the house and nearly knocked Marilla over as she threw herself into the old woman's embrace.
"Oh, Marilla, it's so good to be home!" Anne whispered into the woman's shoulder. "I've missed you and the dear Green Gables so much."
"I daresay it's been dull without you here," said Marilla when Anne pulled away and smiled at her brightly.
Anne noticed the uncommon paleness of Marilla's skin and the different, confounded look in her eyes. "You don't look so well as I'd hoped," Anne confided and took Marilla's wrinkled face in her hands.
"I've had better days," Marilla admitted, smiling sadly.
"You didn't tell me you were feeling worse when you wrote to me," Anne said, searching Marilla's face for any sigh of illness or hope of recovery. "You wrote very little indeed. And why did you let Mrs. Lynde write your last two letters for you? I do know your hand-writing—you're left-handed."
Marilla sighed and averted her eyes from her girl's face. Heavily, she answered, "My eyes have been going worse."
Anne's expression immediately became one of shocked sympathy. "Oh Marilla!" was all she could manage.
Marilla nodded her head gravely. "It has been harder to do the farm work lately," she said, her tone tired and resigned. "I've had horrible headaches. I didn't want to risk anything, reading your letters. Mrs. Rachel was kind enough to read them out to me, and write down my answers."
An unsettling silence followed.
"Oh Marilla!" repeated Anne. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want to worry you," replied Marilla, rising her head again to face her girl. The look in her eyes frightened Anne. It was empty and grey, yet the eyes seemed to search desperately for something to settle on.
"Can you see me?" asked Anne in alarm, as it suddenly stroke her what this look meant.
Marilla's hand made a move towards Anne's head but stopped and pulled back.
"I can see the red of your hair," admitted Marilla, her tone uncharacteristically feeble. "But your face is a blur. I wish I could see your eyes, more than I want to read or knit."
Anne felt her lip tremble and tears prickle at her eyes. She had promised to save Marilla's sight. She had promised and failed! What had this good, generous woman done to deserve this?
At the sound of Anne's shaky intake of breath, worry clouded Marilla's eyes. "There—there," she said, putting all the courage she could muster up into her words. "There is no point in crying, Anne. I knew this was going to happen sooner or later. I'm sure you did, too. I'm grateful that I've had enough time to get used to the idea."
As much as Marilla tried to hide the tremble in her voice, she couldn't fool Anne. The young woman—so shocked, guilt-ridden and heartbroken—cast herself into Marilla's arms. Crying bitter tears, Anne buried her face in the woman's shoulder. She sought refuge from the cruel world in the embrace of the woman who had been the closest thing to a mother Anne had ever known—or dreamed of.
Not ever the crisp woman Marilla had once been would have minded the child's so touching display of emotions or the tears that soaked Marilla's blouse where Anne wept. Marilla caressed her girl's precious red hair with fondness she had once dreaded but eventually accepted and grown accustomed to. With a little bit of luck she could always tell the red of Anne's hair from the rest of the blur in front of her weak eyes. Anne had always been a sight for sore eyes. Marilla thought she couldn't endure never seeing that bright face again—so full of life, hopes and dreams.
Marilla had long before given up on dreams. She only hoped she would live long enough to see Anne's come true.
But this person in her arms now was not one full of hopes and dreams. She was a broken one. Broken by grief and guilt. Despite the reason for Anne's weeping, not a tear escaped Marilla. She had shed hers in the respective solitude of Green Gables and in the supporting company of Mrs. Rachel. Hers was now the responsibility to comfort her child. The child whom she had loved so unconditionally and who loved her every bit as much, if not more.
The End