Author's Note:

I was moved to write this story after reading Catiegirl's "When Tomorrow Comes." If fan fiction is a way of showing love for a book, I hope that this story will show love for all its sources. Thank you to Catiegirl for writing so many lovely chapters that have given me hours of pleasure and escape (and for corresponding with me re: this story). My own story is an alternate universe, diverging from "When Tomorrow Comes" near the end of chapter 36, after the sentence, "It almost sounded as if she had murmured his name."

Instead of waking up in the morning, Anne doesn't.

Quotations from "When Tomorrow Comes" and from canon presented in italics (also some internal thoughts — hopefully clear in context). All credit to L.M. Montgomery for her much beloved characters, and to Catiegirl for this continuity (and for Cora Blythe).

Content warning for Death, Grief, Depression.

Chapter 1: The End

Cora Blythe stepped into the dim room, smiling a little sadly at the sight of her son huddled protectively next to Anne on the bed. She'd come in only a few hours ago and covered the sleeping pair up, her heart sinking at the stillness of the girl next to him. She'd hoped — she'd always hoped — and yet she's seen it too often before. She forced herself now to look at Anne's face in the morning light and an electric shock went through her

as she registered its slack serenity. How thin the line between life and death, and yet, how unmistakable the transformation.

Her hand flew to her mouth and she stayed there frozen, tears beginning to fall.

Marilla stood beside Cora and her breath caught, hearing the broken sounds . . . coming from the nurse . . . Marilla knelt beside Anne then, her own repressed tears beginning to fall as she pressed her hand against the cheek that was [dry] and rapidly cooling. "My little girl," she murmured, her hand trembling as she smoothed the red hair back from her forehead.

Cora knelt on the other side of the bed, wiping her eyes. With tremulous fingers, she reached a hand to Gilbert's cheek, stroking it gently to wake him.

"I'm sorry sweetheart, I must have fallen asleep," he mumbled in a husky voice . . . He sat up then, his hair tousled, and the little blanket that was covering them fell from the bed. He then looked to both Cora and Marilla, who were openly crying, and then finally at the girl beside him. An amazed look shot onto his face and he sprang up then, stumbling slightly as his feet his the floor.

"NO!"

Cora moved to catch him, but too slowly. Gilbert threw himself across the bed, gathering Anne's gaunt, lax body into his arms.

"NO!" he cried again.

Beyond the window of the little east gable room, treetops were silhouetted against the rosy gold of approaching dawn. The storm had washed the face of the earth, leaving field and forest refreshed. Drowsy robins twittered from their perches, bees woke to their never-ending labors, and the last drips of rain plinked from the branches onto the rooftops of Avonlea.

As the last of the predawn fog lifted, John Blythe and Davy Keith came around the corner of the Blythe house, carrying buckets of water from the pump. Out of the corner of his eye, John glimpsed movement at the bottom of the lane and squinted. In a moment, the figure resolved itself into the form of Rachel Lynde, but a Rachel Lynde such as no one had ever seen before. Her gray hair flew long and loose behind her; her brown wrapper, hastily tied, did not quite cover the bottom of her nightgown. Icy dread washed over John as he understood the meaning of her unprecedented state of undress.

"Davy. Go into the house," he said, his voice tight.

"Is that . . . Mrs. Lynde?"

"Davy . . ."

But Mrs. Lynde was at the gate already, gasping.

"Rachel? Is Anne . . ."

Mrs. Lynde only nodded, but there was no need to speak. Her ghastly face was eloquent enough.

John Blythe dropped his buckets, splashing water over his boots. He ignored Davy's tremulous question, striding forward with fierce speed.

"I'm going," he said, brushing past Mrs. Lynde as he began to run.

Three steps down the lane, he halted abruptly, turning back.

"How bad is he, Rachel?"

Still unable to speak, Mrs. Lynde only shook her head, mouth slack in horror.

"Catch your breath. I'll send Davy to get Fred Wright. Davy . . ."

But the boy was gone.

"I'll . . . go . . ." she puffed. "In . . . a . . . moment."

John left her to recover as best she might. He ran as he had not run for years, pushing through the burning in his lungs and the shooting pains in his ribs. When he reached Lover's Lane, he thought that he could not run another step. Then he heard it. Every hair on his body prickled at the sound of his son's anguished wail, drifting down over the smiling summer fields from Green Gables.

A short time later, Rachel Lynde staggered onto the porch of Lone Willow Farm, clutching the stitch in her side. Whatever breath she had recovered was lost in the whimper that escaped her lips. She had intended to knock, but managed only to lean against the doorjamb, letting her head hang down as she attempted to gain some composure. With a shuddering breath, she brought her hand against the door with a feeble slap.

It was enough. Fred Wright answered, haggard with the red-rimmed exhaustion of new parenthood. His torpor vanished as he read the news in Mrs. Lynde's face.

"Oh, no!" Fred's voice was louder than he had intended, and he clapped a hand over his mouth, as if to recapture the exclamation.

Mrs. Lynde nodded grimly as Fred helped her over the threshold.

"When?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but was interrupted by a small sound from the door of the downstairs bedroom. It was Diana, pale in her nightgown, black hair streaming to her waist.

"Di! You shouldn't be out of bed, darling," said Fred, hurrying to her side.

Diana ignored him.

"Anne?" she implored Mrs. Lynde.

Mrs. Lynde had never needed encouragement to speak. But in that moment, she sent a little prayer to heaven, pleading for the strength to say the words.

"She . . . died. This morning."

All color drained from Diana's face. She swooned against the doorframe, sliding to the floor in a puff of cotton.

"Diana!"

Hurried footsteps on the stairs now — Mrs. Barry, who must have been asleep in the spare room.

"Diana! Fred! What's going on?"

"It's Anne, Mrs. Barry," Fred replied.

Shock registered on Mrs. Barry's kind face, but she had eyes only for her daughter.

"She shouldn't be out of bed! Fred, help me with her."

Between the two of them, Fred and Mrs. Barry lifted Diana into the bed where her son had been born the previous day. Baby Fred was squalling in the bassinet under the window, upset by the commotion. No one moved to comfort him.

"Diana! Diana!"

Fred patted his wife's cheeks, trying to revive her. Mrs. Barry dipped a cloth into the china basin of the washstand and dripped cool water over Diana's forehead. She seemed to rouse a little, but moaned and began to weep.

Fred reached out to comfort her.

"Fred," Mrs. Lynde interjected, "you're needed at Green Gables."

"I'm needed here, Mrs. Lynde!"

Mrs. Lynde wrung her hands. Of all the times for words to fail her . . .

"No, Fred . . . please."

At this, Fred Wright looked up sharply. He had known Rachel Lynde since he was in his own bassinet. Over the years, she had scolded him, upbraided him, ordered him, cajoled him, and instructed him. Never had she begged him.

"They may need . . . they may need a man's help. It's only Marilla there, and . . . and the Blythes."

Fred studied her ashen face, indecisive.

"Go, dear," said Mrs. Barry. "I'm here with Diana, and Mrs. Lynde can stay and help with the baby."

Fred looked uncertainly at his wife, but Mrs. Barry urged him on. Mrs. Lynde crossed the room to the bassinet, devoutly thankful to have a job that required neither speech nor the immediate prospect of returning to Green Gables. She settled Baby Fred into her arms, shushing wordlessly, tears spilling onto his blanket.

Once, during his years in Alberta, Gilbert had gone out exploring along a gully near the ranch. He followed it quite a way, until he came to a thick stone archway overlaid with railroad tracks. He had played there a while, tossing stones against the walls and trying a dozen different hoots and cheers, just to enjoy the echoes. All at once, the gravel beneath his feet began to clatter. Gilbert stood stock still as a long, heavy freight train rushed over the bridge, filling the cavern with a rumbling so thick and pressing that he felt almost as if he were underwater. All other sound was obliterated, save for the roaring in his ears.

At first, Cora and John had let him be, unwilling to part them. But when he had fallen silent and still showed no sign of relinquishing the thin, white form, they exchanged a desperate look. They stood, one to each side, and tried to coax him, calm him. Cora smoothed her hand over hunched shoulders; John spoke gently, as he might to a frightened horse. Even Fred tried, calling his name with tender concern. Nothing seemed to reach him.

Marilla stepped forward then, and stood before him. She leaned in, nearly touching her wrinkled forehead to his contorted brow. His eyes were dull, but they focused when Marilla spoke.

"You must let me have my turn now."

Marilla reached out work-worn hands. With a shudder, Gilbert placed the wispy figure into her arms.

In the next instant, he staggered back, pushing past the outstretched arms that sought to comfort him. He hurtled down the stairs, through the door, and into mocking brilliance of a gorgeous morning.