Anne stood before her namesake, the red-headed island girl of imagination.
“Alright, you puffed-sleeved pixie. You’ve won. I get it.”
Anne had spent the past eight months fretting and flustering about university. She had completed her undergrad without much fuss; a small university was exactly what she wanted, and it suited her just fine. But few schools had a graduate program in her field, and she had been forced to head to the big city, the sprawling, stilted city of loud cars and surly businessmen. It was a world she had avoided.
The university was nice enough. She spent most of her days buried in work and study. She went out for the occasional festival, but one could only have so many lemonade and fry trucks before they all started to look alike.
She was home, now. The red-dirt island in the gulf of Saint Lawrence, home of quiet farms and subtle bustle. Her first day she breathed in the fresh air and smiled.
Now, walking in downtown Charlottetown, she found the statue of the girl for which her parents – immigrants from India adapting to their new home – had decided to name her. Anne had read all the books growing up, and like any islander rolled her eyes at any mention of that plucky little orphan.
But she stood now before her, understanding the love of home, the joy of the island and the distaste for more urban climes. She had resisted for the first few months, but by April she was ready to come home and admit defeat.
Anne had a year left of her graduate program, but knew, at the end, that she would come home.