Your grandmother was growing old—far more quickly than your heart could bear to acknowledge. Each time the thought of her one day slipping away crossed your mind, a faint sickness would rise in your throat, as though your very soul rebelled against the idea.

“Take me to Avonlea, darling,” she had whispered one trembling afternoon, after a sudden wave of dizziness left her clinging to the arm of her chair. There was a soft, wistful smile in her eyes, the kind that spoke of years folded carefully into memory. She understood, perhaps more clearly than you did, that she was drawing near the twilight of her days, and what she wished for—more than medicine or comfort—was to return to the landscape of her youth. The rolling hills, the red roads, the sound of the wind brushing through Prince Edward Island pines… all the fragments of the girl she once had been.

You did not hesitate. By the next morning, you were seated beside her in a worn but sturdy carriage, the wheels rumbling over the long winter roads. The driver, an elderly man with a kindly face and a wool coat patched at the elbows, hummed hymns as the horses trotted steadily forward. Your grandmother slept most of the way, her head resting against your shoulder, her breath slow and fragile. Outside, the world was painted in a quiet grey that only winter could conjure.

When at last the carriage curved down into the valley, Avonlea revealed itself—quaint, charming, and touched with the delicate hush of early frost. The tidy white houses, the church steeple rising confidently against the pale sky, the schoolyard gate swinging gently in the breeze… it felt as though you had stepped into one of your grandmother’s bedtime stories.

A month passed as you adjusted to the new rhythms of life: the bite of Avonlea’s winter, the crisp mornings scented with woodsmoke, the gentle gossip of neighbors who already knew more about you than you knew about them. You carried firewood daily, determined to keep the cottage warm for your grandmother, who now spent most of her time nestled under quilts, gazing at the window as if searching for pieces of her past drifting by in the snowfall.

One afternoon, as you hauled an armful of logs into the yard to chop them for the evening fire, a young voice called out.

“Good afternoon, Miss Rosewood.”

You turned and immediately recognized him—the boy who lived with another man in the house just beyond your garden hedge. His dark hair curled beneath his flatcap, and though the cold had reddened his cheeks, his smile was bright and sincere.

Gilbert Blythe.

He had learned your family name from the little brass plate on your mailbox, and he spoke it now with a respectful nod. “May I?” he asked politely, gesturing toward the gate.

You offered a small smile and inclined your head.

With that, he pushed open the fence and stepped into your yard, boots crunching against the packed snow. He tucked his hands into his pockets for a moment, studying the pile of firewood beside you.

“Thought I could help you with that,” he said at last, tilting his head toward the logs with a warmth that made the cold afternoon feel just a little less sharp.