December 26, 1892

This isn't happening. It's a nightmare. This isn't real.

The thought floated back to the surface of Anne's mind as she sat in the Blythes' parlor, listening to Mrs. Blythe talk through her tears.

"The telegram only said he'd taken ill," she moaned. "I thought, since I was at the post office already, I might as well use the telephone to call the hospital. The first doctor passed me to a second doctor, and he said nothing...asked me to wait, never said why. So I had to sit at the post office... I knew something was wrong! I knew, and when they called back, it was the director - of the hospital - to say that he'd passed away early that morning. My little boy, all alone at dawn... I should have insisted that we get that telephone installed! Gilbert kept saying...but John didn't-"

Sobs choked her, preventing her from saying anymore. Anne threw an imploring look at Diana, who rose from her seat: the friends switched places, and Diana took her turn by Mrs. Blythe's side, laying a comforting hand on the inconsolable woman's shoulder.

Thus relieved, Anne exited the parlor to follow the sound of chest-wracking coughs up the stairs. From the doorway of the master bedroom, she took in the sorrowful sight of Mr. Blythe lying on his bed. His body was weakened by the cold he hadn't been able to shirk since October: on top of that, he had aged ten years in the past two days. Loss was taking its toll, fading what little brown was left in his hair to a dull gray, making his joints creak, and every one of his gestures looked as though it might be his last.

Anne approached the poor man and took his hand in hers: it was iced. She pulled a second quilt over him, knowing it wouldn't do much good - it was a chill that came from the inside. She'd felt it, too, after Diana had come to Green Gables to deliver the news. Ice had flooded her veins, her limbs had gone numb, and her insides filled up with pure horror. Needing to expel it, she'd screamed like she never had before. Something awful bubbled up from her stomach, slashed her chest as it rose, clawed at her throat and came out in a frightful wail. It felt like vomiting sadness. Diana held her as she yelled and cried, until the sun went down and the sky turned dark.

It's not real. It's a nightmare. Not happening.

She was aware of very little other than her own anguish that night - the buggy ride from Green Gables to the Wrights' farm passed in a blur of tears, and she'd been tucked away quickly in the guest room. Diana was in and out, helping her change into a borrowed nightshirt, bringing tea that was left untouched, replacing handkerchief after handkerchief. It was only when Anne heard the children's voices downstairs that she remembered it was Christmas eve, and she ordered her bosom friend out of the room, insisting (tearfully) that she was fine, and that the goose wouldn't carve itself.

"That's Fred's job," Diana had smiled tentatively, brushing Anne's forehead with the back of her hand. "I'll bring up a tray, and we can have supper here, just the two of us."

Anne shook her head and blew her nose. "Go, be with them: I'm not hungry. I'll probably fall right asleep." Diana eventually relented, and Anne spent all night muffling her cries with her pillow.

It can't be real. It's not real. It's a nightmare.

By Christmas day she hadn't slept, and looked like a wreck. Not wanting to worry her hosts, she'd endured breakfast, eating the bare minimum that would appease Diana, and followed them to church. It was suggested that maybe she would rather stay at home and rest, but Anne had declined the offer, thinking that perhaps the service would provide some distraction. She realized her mistake when Rev. Allan asked the congregation to offer a special prayer for the Blythe family: she'd had to shove her way off the pew, causing a commotion as she ran out and let the heavy church door slam loudly behind her. This time, it was not sadness, but actual vomit that spewed from her. Fred came out to ask if she was alright: and when she wouldn't come back in, he'd sat with her on the cold steps, listening to the hymns from their serene perch.

After that fiasco, there was no convincing Diana to let her return to Green Gables, no matter how much Anne begged. This meant another night of stifling her sobs into the mattress of the spare room, but sometime between three o'clock and the rooster's crow, she'd fallen asleep. Come morning, she'd mostly gotten a hold of herself, enough to go make herself useful with the Wrights. She and Diana were to stay with Mr. and Mrs. Blythe, while Fred went to fetch some relatives at the station: the doctor and his wife from Glen St Mary would be the first to arrive.

This isn't happening.

Mr. Blythe's body convulsed with another fit of coughing, and Anne had to coax him back down into a lying position on the bed. Whatever pain she'd felt, his must be worse, she reasoned, though it seemed unfathomable that anyone could hurt that much and survive.

December 29, 1892

The port was surprisingly full for such a cold day: people covered their mouths and noses with their scarves, hunching their shoulders against the icy gusts that blew gently over the chilled sea. Anne barely registered the cold, focusing all her attention on the incoming ferry, the one that was bringing Gilbert home. Her body tingled in excitement, as if it hadn't yet understood what her mind already knew: that her chum would not be standing on the deck, spotting her in the crowd and winking at her.

Despite the reminder from her brain, her heart hammered as passengers disembarked. She half-expected him to run up to her and hoist her over his shoulder like a sack of grains, or to sneak up on her from behind and steal her hat, holding it up tauntingly beyond her reach. Joyful reunions occurred all around her, though none as scandalous as Gilbert's - he'd loved creating a scene and embarrassing her when he came home to visit. She would yell at him and fight back, and he knew that she was just pretending to be cross in order to egg him on - but she hadn't told him how much she'd enjoyed his teasing. Now, he would never know.

As the crowd thinned in front of her, Anne gained a better view of the last few stragglers walking off the ramp. She spotted a man whose face was as pale as hers, and knew him immediately. It didn't matter that she'd never met him: she would have recognized him anywhere, having received such accurate descriptions of him in Gilbert's letters. And even if she hadn't, she would have identified him by the grieving air that matched her own.

She made her way toward him, wading against the current of people eager to get home. Before she could call out to him, his eyes found hers, and a smile almost effaced the sadness on his face (but not quite). He approached her in three big steps.

"You're Anne? Anne Shirley?" His lilt tipped the pitch up to indicate a question, but she felt that he'd recognized her as effortlessly as she had.

"And you're Mr. Sheehan."

"Doug, please. Thank you for driving up here - I'm sorry you had to wait in the cold."

"It's no trouble. I should be thanking you for..." she let her sentence taper off, and both their small smiles faltered a bit. "Shall we?"

They headed for the area where merchandise was being lowered off the ship. "I had to use the largest crate I could find to disguise the shape, or they wouldn't have let me on board. There it is," he pointed to a crate easily the size of three men. Anne went to untie her horse so that she could bring the cart closer, and watched as Doug got two men to help him lift the impossible burden, paying a handful of coins to each of them once it had been secured with rope.

"Alright," he dusted his hands, slightly out of breath, turning to her. "Shall we?"

Anne snapped out of her trance. "Yes! Sorry. Mrs. Blythe will have turned in for the night already, and Mr. Blythe hasn't been well, but his aunt is staying with them, she will have some supper ready for you." She clacked the reins, and glanced briefly at him.

Other than being portlier and a little bit rounder than she'd pictured in her mind, he was just as Gilbert had written. He did, in fact, have "the body of a bear and the strength of one, too." An intimidating sentence, that had then been tempered: "for all his massive bulk, he wouldn't harm a fly." Anne supposed that on a regular day, "big, round brown eyes that give him an air of perfect innocence" would be accurate, though there was a deep sadness there, too, that gave his otherwise babyish traits an air of maturity. "A face so freckled, it looks like a seeded roll" was not a very kind description, though she couldn't refute it. Of course, Gilbert wouldn't have been Gilbert if he hadn't followed with: "And I haven't told you the best part: his hair is so orange, one can't stare at it too long without going blind. He would give you a run for your money, Carrots!" This was how he had introduced his housemate in one of his first letters from Prince Albert, and she had responded with a warning not to upset them, lest they should form an allegiance and retaliate. Since then, nearly every letter included a brief salutation from one redhead to the other.

"Was it difficult? The journey?" she asked to fill the silence, noting the way he glanced at her, appraising her in a similar way.

"Traveling would have been an issue on any other day," he answered. "Seeing as it was a holiday, everyone was eager to get home - I was able to pay the fee without too many questions asked." He sighed. "The worst part was getting his body released. I might not have succeeded, if it wasn't for his will."

Anne turned so sharply, she nearly fell off the cart. "He had a will?"

Doug nodded, unfazed. "He made sure all his papers were in order. Most of us do. We witness too many deaths, on a daily basis, not to be prepared."

He'd gone weeks without writing her, or his parents, letting them all stew until they were sick with worry, but he'd taken the time to draw up a will? She processed this new information silently, semi-aware that Doug was studying her. "You can stop staring. I'm fine," she snapped rudely, still reeling from the shock.

"Well. I see what he meant about your temper," he said evenly.

"Excuse me?" Anne straightened like a snake posing to strike.

He merely grinned. "Ah, and there's the famous nostril flare! He did warn me about that, too."

"Mr. Sheehan!" she seethed, though a part of her couldn't help but be pleased that Gilbert had talked about her - as embarrassing as the subject had been. She tightened her grip on her fleeting anger and went on. "It is one thing to share informal pleasantries through a letter, but another one altogether to be so familiar when we've barely met."

Doug didn't have the grace to even feign an air of being contrite: he set a pudgy hand over her gloved one, mindful not to disturb the rein, and looked right at her, unperturbed by her rigid posture and arctic glare. "I've known you as long as I've known Gil," he said. It was odd hearing the nickname from anyone's lips but hers - for some reason, it gave her a thrill to hear him say it. The ice in her eyes melted, and she nodded.

"Yes," she agreed. "He wrote of you enough that I feel I know you as well."

"He spoke of several people," said Doug, removing his hand and turning back to face the road. "Parents, friends - but no one as much as you."

Tears welled up in her eyes so suddenly, she'd had to pull the horse to a stop. Crying had been as natural (and nearly as frequent) as breathing these past few days, but she'd wait until she was in the privacy of her room. Her meltdown at Christmas had everyone talking already, and sobbing while driving with a stranger would not help matters.

Some deep breaths later, she blinked the tears back and turned to Doug. "Thank you. For saying that," she clarified needlessly, annoyed that her voice wobbled.

"So...are we friends now?" he asked, his big brown eyes pleading earnestly. "Or should I watch out for slates coming near my head?"

His laughter only intensified when she didn't succeed in shoving his heavy frame off the cart, grating her nerves raw. It wasn't until they'd reached their destination that she realized: she hadn't felt this disgruntled since Christmas eve.

December 31, 1892

Few were in attendance at the graveyard. The busybodies who made a habit of inviting themselves to such functions under the guise of "supporting the community" were celebrating the last day of the year with their own, and others had deemed themselves unfit to stand out in the bitter cold. As a result, the solemn party was limited to Mr. Blythe sitting in his wheelchair, Mrs. Blythe clutching the handles to keep herself upright. They were flanked by the seven relatives who'd been able to travel on short notice: the only other family present was the Wrights, little Freddie and Small Anne the only children around. Doug's bright head stood out like a flame - his was the only one, since Anne had put her hair up and hidden it under her fancy black hat.

After the funeral, Diana had offered the use of her guest room once again, but Anne pointed out that she'd already made her miss out on too much time with the Wrights and her own parents. "I'll be fine. And I promise to call the Bells if I need anything." The Bells, who owned the farm next to the Wrights', would relay a message quickly, though Anne had no intention of contacting anyone tonight. Diana would be relieved, she had barely had a moment alone with Fred this past week.

Anne also declined the invitation to join the Blythes for the dinner Mr. Blythe's aunt and Mrs. Blythe's sister had prepared. The small crowd dissipated, and Doug lingered until they were the only ones left standing. Neither spoke, except to thank the reverend when he wished them a good new year.

She stared at the freshly piled earth. There was no gravestone, and there wouldn't be for a while. Until then, Anne didn't think she would ever believe that the casket in the ground was Gilbert Blythe's. "He would have hated this," she muttered absently.

"I'm glad I wasn't the only one who found it abysmal," Doug sighed in relief. "I don't know where the Reverend got his eulogy - he didn't even read any of the verses Gil requested."

Anne found herself almost smiling. The speech had indeed been so stiff, she hadn't shed a single tear. "Rev. Allan has been reading the same funeral rites as long as I've been here, down to the punctuation." She glanced at his round face curiously. "He requested verses?"

Doug shrugged. His grin was pained and half-hearted, but he didn't elaborate. "Will you be alright?" he asked. "I can walk you home, if you'd like."

"No, thank you." Unable to say anymore, she waved at him and walked away.

Instead of going down the Avenue, Anne headed toward the woods. Everything was still in her winter wonderland: trees frosted in a thick coat of powdery snow, icicles hanging from branches. No animals, no birds - no noise, except for the crunching of her boots on the frozen ground. It was so still, so quiet, like death. It wouldn't be so bad, she decided. To be left alone, in peace. And she certainly could do without the sadness that suffocated her. Finally, she could be rid of the unbearable pain.

Could she? Perhaps not. She couldn't stab herself, or hang from a tree - she wasn't capable of violent gestures on other beings, couldn't even behead a chicken: she definitely couldn't end her own life brutally.

Barry's pond was frozen: no chance of drowning, then. If she lay down on the ice, how long before someone found her? Long enough for her to die of cold? One night should do the trick. Heck, she didn't even need to go as far as the lake: the stream beside her was frozen solid. She could hide here, and be dead by morning.

"Ho, there's a cheerful thought."

Anne spun around, and her heart stopped. Gilbert leaned against a tree, his arms crossed, smirking impertinently at her. "Well? Aren't you going to say anything?"

She gaped, unable to speak, unwilling to blink. It was him, for sure: she'd know that voice anywhere, and that cap perched over his brown curls...she hadn't seen it in years. As a matter of fact, his entire outfit seemed outdated. The light blue shirt, brown pants...and didn't his face seem more youthful? His cheeks a bit fuller, his lopsided grin a bit more carefree? Anne realized that this was Gilbert from their school days. Her knees buckled, and she fell into a sitting position, barely registering the cold ground under her.

"You're dead," she said out loud.

He chuckled. "So, what's your excuse for being out here, all alone on the eve of the new year?"

"I'm allowed to be by myself if I please," she said bitterly.

Gilbert merely shrugged. "Alright, I'll go, then."

"No!" she called to his retreating form. "Please, stay!"

Mercifully, he turned around and walked back to her. "This is nice," he said, sitting next to her. "Much better than sitting by the fireplace in Green Gables, warm and toasty."

"I can't go back," she explained. "It's so..."

"Empty? So go somewhere else. My parents wanted you over for supper, remember?" he pointed out. She sighed. "Ah, I don't blame you for not wanting to go - my Aunt Ida made her famous salmon pudding. Nasty stuff," he faked a shudder. "What about Diana? she invited you over to celebrate with Fred's parents, did she not?"

"She's already missed Christmas taking care of me, and I was starting to scare the children."

"I can hardly blame them. You look like death warmed over." He smirked at her, and she tried to punch him, but her arm wouldn't move. All her muscles felt stiff from the cold. "Seriously, Anne, what are you doing, feeling sorry for yourself?"

"How could you say that?" Her temper flared. "I'm not the one who lost a son!"

His expression was not at all amused. "No, you lost a good friend. Or maybe I didn't mean that much to you."

Tears warmed her frozen cheeks. "You meant the world to me, Gil."

"Five years of cold shoulder and two turned down proposals isn't exactly the legacy of a beautiful friendship," he said, his teasing grin back in place. It only served to make her cry harder.

"I wasted so much time," she sobbed. "We could have had had so much more..."

"That's life," he shrugged. "You only have one go 'round in this world, and your choices define how you'll live it. I'm not saying this to make you feel worse," he cut her before she could interrupt. "I'm trying to help you, so listen carefully, Anne: you're not dead yet. You still have your life, you have Green Gables, and people who care for you."

"But I need you," she whispered, her voice cracking.

"You'll be fine," he said, though he sounded a bit uncertain of it. "Tell you what: I'll check in on you next New Year's eve. Now, get a grip, Anne Shirley. You have so many choices to make ahead: and frankly, lying face down in the snow seems like a pretty poor one, from where I'm standing."

How was her face half covered in snow? She didn't remember lying down...and why was he standing? Don't leave, she tried to form the words, but she couldn't make her mouth work. He must have heard her, though, because he knelt down beside her and rested a warm hand on her cheek.

"Don't worry, you're not alone. I'm right here."

OriginalMcFishie: Thank you! The address thing is something my cousins and I did when we were younger and wrote each other (yes, physical letters with stamps and all).

AnneFans: Here it is, sorry for the wait!

elizasky: I hope this chapter has sealed some of my sloppy cracks! I was very emotional when I was writing the intro, and didn't think through some of the logistics.

Kate: I will eventually expand on his cause of death - most likely in the following chapter!

oz diva: Um...I didn't research this epidemic history very well, so I might write it off as a false alarm. Hopefully this story will be good enough that sloppy mistakes might be forgiven. And I will bring up Marilla eventually!