The house was still. It was the kind of stillness that carried with it a suffocating weight, a sense of absence so profound that even the air seemed to mourn. Inside, the pale light of afternoon cast long, fading shadows across the floorboards, the silence broken only by the occasional sound of the wind rustling outside.
Gilbert Blythe sat hunched in a chair by the hearth, his eyes fixed blankly on the dying embers. His father lay still in his arms, an empty shell of the man he had been just days ago. The warmth of the fire seemed distant, as though it belonged to a world that Gilbert could no longer reach.
He had tried. He had tried so hard to keep it together. But now, with the weight of his father's death pressing down on him, he didn't know what to do. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt truly alive. His mind felt like a fog, every thought clouded by grief and exhaustion. It wasn't supposed to end like this. Not with him alone, not with his father gone.
Gilbert closed his eyes, his fingers trembling as they brushed over his father's cold hand. He hadn't been able to save him, despite everything. It felt as though the world had just… stopped.
Outside, the day seemed to march on, indifferent to the tragedy unfolding inside the Blythe home. The sounds of the wind in the trees, the distant chatter of birds, and the low murmur of the creek could all be heard, but none of it could break the spell of grief that had settled over Gilbert.
Minutes stretched into hours. He didn't know how long he had sat there, but when the sound of a soft knock on the door reached his ears, it felt like an intrusion. Gilbert looked up slowly, his eyes red-rimmed, his face pale, as if he had forgotten the world existed outside these walls.
"Gilbert?" It was Marilla's voice, soft but firm, carrying through the door.
Gilbert didn't answer at first. His throat was tight, and his words were trapped in the fog of sorrow that filled his mind. But then, slowly, as if moving through water, he stood up, dragging his feet to the door. When he opened it, his gaze was hollow, as if the person who stood before him wasn't truly him at all.
Marilla's face softened as she took in the sight of Gilbert, his eyes empty and his shoulders sagging with the weight of grief. Behind her, Matthew's face was creased with concern.
"We came to check on you," Marilla said gently, stepping inside. Matthew followed close behind, his steps slow, deliberate. Neither of them needed to ask about what had happened. They could see it in the lifeless expression on Gilbert's face.
Gilbert's gaze dropped to the floor, his mouth tight as if he had no more words to say.
"Where is he?" Marilla asked quietly, her voice thick with sorrow.
Gilbert pointed toward the corner of the room, where his father's body lay. The air in the room felt cold now, the fire that had once crackled so brightly now a mere flicker in the hearth.
Matthew took a deep breath and moved toward Gilbert's father, his face lined with an understanding that came from experience. Marilla placed a hand on Gilbert's shoulder, a silent offer of comfort.
"You don't have to do this alone, Gilbert," she said softly. Her voice trembled slightly, as though she too were holding back tears. "Let us help."
Gilbert didn't respond, but the stiffness in his body seemed to loosen just a little. He allowed Marilla to guide him to a nearby chair, and he sank into it as if all the strength had drained out of him.
Matthew and Marilla moved swiftly to take care of what needed to be done. Matthew, with his steady hands and quiet demeanor, carefully arranged Gilbert's father, covering him with a blanket and taking the necessary steps to prepare for the funeral. Marilla, ever the practical one, began gathering the small things around the house—food, blankets, whatever they could offer. Gilbert hardly moved, his mind far away, consumed by a grief that left him paralyzed.
"Do you want us to stay here, Gilbert?" Marilla asked after a long while. Her voice was soft, respectful of his space but insistent. "We can help with the arrangements."
Gilbert didn't respond at first, his eyes distant. Then, in a voice so low that Marilla had to strain to hear him, he said, "I can't… I can't do this, Marilla. I don't know how to… how to live with this. How to go on without him."
The words hung in the air, thick and heavy. Gilbert had always been a strong, resilient boy, but now, in this moment, he seemed utterly lost. Marilla's heart ached for him. She wished there was something more she could do, something to ease his pain.
"You don't have to do it alone, Gilbert," she repeated, her voice firm but gentle. "You have us. You have Matthew. And Anne. We'll help you through this. One step at a time."
Matthew joined them then, his face solemn. "We'll take care of things here," he said, his voice steady. "You don't have to worry about the farm. Jerry will help us, and Fred's father is coming by to help too. We'll make sure everything is taken care of."
Gilbert's expression was vacant, but he nodded faintly, acknowledging their words without fully taking them in. He didn't know how to feel anymore. The world outside seemed to keep turning, but he was stuck.
"Come with us, Gilbert," Marilla said, gently guiding him by the arm. "Come stay at Green Gables for a while. You don't have to be here alone."
Gilbert didn't resist. The thought of being alone in this house, of having to face the emptiness by himself, was too much. So, with slow, heavy steps, he followed Marilla and Matthew out of the Blythe house. It felt as though he were walking through a dream, his body moving on instinct while his mind remained trapped in the storm of grief and disbelief.
Green Gables felt different when Gilbert arrived. The warmth of the hearth, the smell of stew simmering on the stove, the sound of Anne's cheerful chatter—none of it reached him. It was like walking into another world, one where the sun still shone and the birds still sang, but none of it mattered to him.
Anne, who had been waiting by the window for them, rushed forward as soon as she saw Gilbert. Her face fell when she saw the empty look in his eyes. She instantly knew what had happened. John Blythe is dead. She had expected him to be upset, but this… this was something more. She could see the darkness clouding his features, the silent pain that spoke volumes.
"Gilbert," she said softly, reaching out to him. "Are you okay?"
But Gilbert didn't answer. He simply stared at her, his eyes unfocused, as if he didn't recognize her. As if he was looking right through her.
Marilla and Matthew led him inside, helping him settle into the spare room Anne stood there, unsure of what to do, her heart aching for him. She wanted to help, to ease his suffering, but how could she? What could anyone say to take away the crushing weight of his grief?
The funeral was a quiet, somber affair. Gilbert had insisted on handling everything himself, but Marilla and Matthew had quietly stepped in, offering their support where they could. It was an intimate gathering, with only a few close family members and friends attending. Gilbert stood by the grave, his face a mask of sorrow and stoic determination. He didn't cry—he hadn't cried since the moment his father had passed.
Anne, who had attended the service with Matthew and Marilla, could hardly bear to look at him. She saw the empty stare in his eyes, the way he seemed so far away from everything. She wanted to help him, but she felt helpless. She didn't know how to reach him, how to bridge the chasm of grief that had opened up between them.
As the days passed, Gilbert's depression began to take root. He withdrew more and more into himself, unable to find any joy in the world around him. He hardly spoke, barely ate, and often spent hours staring into space. He had stopped going to the farm, leaving the work to Matthew, Jerry and Fred's father, who did their best to keep things running smoothly. Anne had tried to talk to him, but he never responded. He seemed lost, unreachable, and it hurt her deeply to see him like this.
Marilla and Matthew continued to check on him, urging him to stay with them at Green Gables. But even with their support, Gilbert seemed adrift, unable to find his way back from the overwhelming pain.
One evening, after a long day of silence, Gilbert finally spoke to Anne. His voice was low, almost inaudible.
"I don't know how to keep going," he confessed. "I don't know how to… how to live without him."
Anne's heart clenched. She reached out and gently touched his arm. "Gilbert," she said softly, "you don't have to do it alone. You have us. We'll be here for you. Every step of the way."
But even as she said the words, she knew they weren't enough. The darkness that had taken root in Gilbert's heart was deep, and she feared it would consume him if he didn't find a way to break free from it.
As the days went on, Gilbert's depression seemed to deepen, and no one could find a way to reach him. Anne's heart broke for him, but she couldn't help but wonder if there was something more she could do.
The days after the funeral passed quietly, leaving the house in an exhausted, sorrowful stillness. Gilbert had fallen into an uneasy sleep, his face streaked with tears from the day's events. Anne, too, had retired to her room, though she could not find rest. Both were troubled by the weight of the tragedy, each in their own way. But in the kitchen of Green Gables, the two who had always quietly watched over them were now left to reflect on what had happened, what was to come, and what they could do to help.
Marilla set the kettle on the stove, her hands shaking slightly as she adjusted it on the flame. She had hardly eaten, hardly spoken since the funeral, and yet the quiet continued to press in on her, as if the world had been paused, waiting for something. Matthew, sitting at the table, stared absently at the walls, his wrinkled face drawn with grief.
Finally, after a long silence, Matthew spoke, his voice quiet and rough. "I can't quite get my head around it, Marilla. It feels like John should still be here—he always was so strong. To see him go so quickly... It doesn't seem real."
Marilla paused, the weight of his words sinking deep into her. She had once loved John Blythe, more than anyone, more than anything she could remember. But when life had changed, as it so often does, she'd had to put her feelings aside. Her eyes fell to the floor for a moment, a tear slipping down her cheek.
"I loved him," Marilla said softly, her voice a little tremulous. "I never stopped loving him. You know that, Matthew. He was always a part of me. But it was never meant to be. It was just… one of those things. Too many differences, too many reasons we couldn't have a future together."
Matthew nodded, his eyes understanding. He had always known of the quiet love his sister held for John, even after so many years. It had never been spoken aloud, but it had been there in the way she spoke of him, in the little things—her lingering looks at John when they crossed paths in town, the way she'd always keep a close watch on how he was doing when he became ill. Marilla's love for John had been a silent undercurrent in her life, one that had never quite gone away.
"I never understood why it didn't happen," Matthew added, his voice low, "but I could see it. I saw it every time you looked at him, and I saw it in the way he looked at you. I guess… I guess that's just how things work out, though. And now we're left with all this... this emptiness."
A heavy silence followed as both of them looked out into the still evening, lost in their thoughts. Marilla dabbed at her eyes, a quiet sigh escaping her.
"It just seems so wrong, doesn't it, Matthew?" she said, her voice breaking slightly. "John's gone. And poor Gilbert… he's just a boy. What does he know of all this? How can he possibly bear it?"
Matthew turned his gaze toward his sister, his expression softening. "He's strong, Marilla. He'll get through this. But you're right. He's just a boy. I don't think he knows how to handle it yet. He'll try, and that's the problem—he'll try to do it alone. He doesn't know how to let us help him."
Marilla's hands tightened on the edge of the table. "He's always been so proud. Too proud. I think… I think he's afraid of letting anyone in. He's afraid of showing weakness, afraid that he'll lose whatever he has left of himself. I don't know how to reach him, Matthew."
"I'm afraid he's not the only one who doesn't know how to reach out," Matthew said quietly. "I think we both know what it feels like to carry something we can't share with anyone."
Marilla's eyes flickered with understanding, and she leaned back in her chair. The quietness between them was filled with years of shared history, of lives lived side by side with so much unsaid. She and Matthew had spent decades together, never truly separating, never really moving forward with their own lives in the way they might have. Life had always been like this—quiet, without much change.
"Maybe we should talk to him more," Matthew said after a long pause. "It's not easy, I know. But if we don't, we might lose him, Marilla. And I'm not ready to lose him."
Marilla swallowed, her throat tight. "You're right," she whispered. "But we can't force him. He'll come around in his own time. He always does."
Matthew nodded, though there was little comfort in his expression. The silence that followed was not heavy, but rather filled with the sadness of what could not be changed. The conversation drifted to John's life and how, despite everything, it felt like he was still with them, even if only in memory.
"I'll help him, Marilla," Matthew finally said. "I'll help Gilbert. I'll talk to him, and I'll make sure he's not alone. I don't want him to face this by himself."
"Yes, we'll help him," Marilla replied. "We won't let him suffer alone. We'll find a way. We have to."
For a moment, they simply sat in the kitchen, the quiet of Green Gables wrapping around them like a heavy blanket.
Upstairs, Anne lay in her bed, her arms tucked beneath her pillow, her wide eyes staring into the dark. She could hear the soft murmurs of Marilla and Matthew's voices through the walls, though she couldn't make out the words. But she didn't need to. The sadness in their voices was enough to tell her everything.
She turned over slowly, her body heavy with emotion, feeling an ache in her chest she couldn't explain. She thought about Gilbert—his pain, his sorrow. He had been so strong for so long, but this grief had broken him. It made her heart hurt for him, and for the first time in a long while, Anne realized she wasn't sure how to help him.
Her eyes moved to the opposite side of the room, where Gilbert lay in the bed. She knew he wasn't asleep either, though he hadn't made a sound since they'd both retired to their rooms. He was probably just as restless, as unsettled as she was, but like always, he was trying to handle everything on his own.
Anne let out a slow breath and reached for the window. The moonlight outside was soft and pale, casting long shadows across the room. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the coolness of the night soothe her nerves.
Across the hall, in the other room, Gilbert lay quietly, his face turned toward the wall, though his eyes remained wide open, staring into the dark. His mind was spinning with everything that had happened—his father's death, the funeral, and the overwhelming weight of what came next. He hadn't cried when Marilla and Matthew had entered to check on him earlier, but the truth was, he hadn't been able to stop himself since they'd left.
The tears came quietly, silently, as Gilbert clutched the blanket to his chest, feeling the overwhelming emptiness of the house pressing in on him. The pain of loss was suffocating, and there was no escape from it.
Author's Note
Sorry for the sad chapters, I have to write Gilbert in a deeper depression than they showed in AWAE, I feel like it is more realistic for his character. Let me know what you think!