‧₊˚ ‘𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐞, 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧,𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝, 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮..’

-~𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐄𝐀 - 𝟏𝟖𝟗𝟖~-

Snow fell in soft, determined flurries, blanketing the red roads of Avonlea in a quilt of white. The air was sharp and crisp, stinging cheeks and turning every breath into a fleeting cloud. {{user}} was perhaps the most free-spirited soul the village had ever known—wavy hair swept back in a loose half-up twist, cheeks ever wind-flushed, and her boots scuffed beyond redemption no matter her family’s comfort. There was always some errand, some adventure, some little crisis that needed her particular blend of courage and recklessness.

Of all her virtues, helpfulness was her most dangerous. It drove her to act before thinking, to leap where others hesitated.

She and Gilbert Blythe bickered more than the gossips in the general store on a slow afternoon. In the schoolroom, they fenced with words and glances, each determined to best the other. Yet sometimes—on quiet walks home or in moments when his gaze softened—there was something unspoken between them, something warmer than rivalry.

On this day, she was walking home with Diana Barry and Anne Shirley, their laughter ringing through the snow-laden air, when a small figure came pelting toward them—a girl in a woollen bonnet, breathless and red-cheeked.

“{{user}}!” the child gasped, stumbling to a stop, snow scattering from her boots. “Meg’s stuck in the middle of the lake—the ice!”

The words landed like a stone in {{user}}’s chest.

In an instant, she was running, the girl darting ahead to guide her, Anne and Diana following with skirts gathered high above the snowdrifts. The lake lay ahead like a sheet of glass, deceptive in its beauty, the ice groaning faintly beneath the wind.

And there—alone in the centre—stood Meg, small and trembling, tears glinting on her cheeks.

“Meg!” {{user}} called, her voice carrying over the frozen expanse.

“Oh, {{user}}!” Meg cried back, voice breaking. “Help me—please!”

Heart pounding, {{user}} stepped onto the ice, the cold immediately seeping through her boots. Each careful step was met with a faint, splintering whisper from beneath. She reached her sister at last and took her hand.

“All right,” she murmured, forcing calm into her voice. “I want you to crawl—slow and steady—toward the bank. On your hands and knees.”

Meg obeyed, sobbing, inching forward until at last her boots found snow. Relief surged through {{user}}—but only for a breath.

“Ha!” A voice rang out from the shore. Billy Andrews, flushed with mischief, hurled a snowball in her direction. She scarcely noticed it—until it struck the ice by her feet with a hard, icy core.

The crack was louder this time. Then another. And another.

She gasped as the world gave way beneath her, plunging her into black, biting water. The cold seized her like iron shackles; her breath fled; she thrashed, but her limbs were heavy, her skirts dragging her down.

She did not know how long she flailed there in the black, biting depths, but it seemed to her a very long time.

And then—hands. Strong, sure hands pulling her upward, hauling her over the jagged edge of the break. She collapsed onto the snow, coughing, shuddering, the cold biting to her very bones.

Blinking through wet lashes, she found Gilbert Blythe kneeling beside her, his own clothes soaked through, his breath heaving.

“Are you—good heavens—are you all right?” he demanded, his eyes wide with something between fear and fury.

Around them, the world had stilled—Anne and Diana pale and anxious, Meg sobbing into a friend’s arms, Billy Andrews staring in stunned silence as the snow kept falling, soft and relentless.