Remains to be Seen

Chapter Nineteen: History

Oh look another update from Avieda at 2 in the morning...

I'll make it short.

You may or may not want tissues. (Lol tbh Idek...)

Here you go!

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Anne let him walk her to the end of the hall, but when he stopped in front of a door and saw him gently place his palm against it—she had her doubts.

"I haven't opened his door since Nan," Gilbert paused, rethinking, "I haven't opened his door in over five years."

"Gilbert," she placed her hand on his shoulder, "don't, I'm fine."

"No," Gilbert placed his forehead on the wood door, "it's been a long time coming."

He dropped her wrist and turned the door handle, pushing open the creaking door.

"You should oil that," Anne's face contorted hearing the whining screech of the door.

Laughing Gilbert shook his head, "will do, Anne-girl."

The room was beautiful, even being covered in five years of dust. Anne's eyes darted from thing to thing: the magnificent quilt with little flowers embroidered on the hem, a vanity which had braided chains of now dried flowers around a dusty mirror. She walked to a bay-window which looked out over the eastern part of the farm, in the direction of the flower field Gilbert had taken her to.

Anne sat down at the window as Gilbert opened the closet, her eyes darted to something on the bedside table. It was a little wooden box with intricate little flowers carved into the sides and a beautifully detailed wood-carved daisy as a lid. Anne stood up and walked to the bed, picking up the little box. She sat down leaning back against the headboard, holding the box up to her face and her right hand tracing the embroidered flowers on the quilt's hem.

"Now they aren't exactly the latest fashion of course, but Nan did always have her own style anyhow," Gilbert turned around once he had organized the closet a little, "you can—"

His voice broke when he saw Anne on the bed—holding a wooden box and fingers playing with the flower patterns.

Anne's head whipped towards the boy when his voice broke, "Gil?"

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Thump!

The book fell off Minnie May's head for the millionth time that afternoon. Diana was arranging flowers in a vase, book perfectly balance on her silken black hair. She heard her mother sigh out of exasperation.

"Minnie May, I do not understand why this is so difficult for you. The book is suppose to stay on your head," Mrs. Barry leaned down and picked the book up off the rug, handing it to her youngest daughter.

"Mother," Diana gently said as she slowly turned around, careful to keep the book still, "she is only seven years old. Perhaps when she is older—"

"Her age matters not!" Mrs. Barry snapped, cutting Diana off, "I surely started you too late. Why just the other day I saw you skipping on your way back from the pond. You very well know a lady is not to look as if she is in any kind of rush."

"I wasn't in a rush, Mother," Diana took a step forward and shook her head, causing the book to fall, but she caught it in her hands before it hit the floor.

Mrs. Barry frowned at her daughter, but Diana continued anyhow.

"It was a gloriously beautiful day, and I was happy. That is why I was skipping. Do you not wish for me to be happy, Mother?"