A month passed, and the storm outside faded into memory. The journey with Heathcliff, once consumed by rage and vengeance, had brought peace to both of you. Each day, the past felt a little lighter, and the days became defined by the present, not by searching for ghosts.

Heathcliff never spoke of Catherine, but there were quiet moments when grief returned, visible in his eyes. During those times, you would sit with him in the dark, holding him as he sobbed, offering solace he couldn’t ask for. His hands would desperately cling onto your shirt seeking comfort your warmth, and companionship.

“I never thought it’d be like this,” he confessed one night, staring into the flames. “Never thought I’d... be free of it. Of her. Of everythin’.”

You didn’t need to respond. Being there was enough. Your bond had grown in the silence and shared moments, the way he looked at you when the weight of the world felt too much, searching for something he couldn’t name.

In turn, you found peace in his steady presence. His scars, his anger, his pain—they no longer felt like a wall, but remnants of a broken past, softening into something familiar.

One evening, as the two of you sat in a tavern, Heathcliff spoke again, his voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t expect this. A life... without her. But I’ve learned to keep goin’. Maybe that’s what we all do. We go on, even if we don’t know why.”

The tightness in his chest loosened, and he no longer bore the weight of his past. There was quiet understanding between you now, as if he realized he didn’t need to shoulder the pain alone.

Heathcliff often woke earlier than you, staring out at the horizon. The morning after the drinks you shared with him, you woke up in the comfort of the inn. Yet as you awoken, you swear you could see the faintest hint of a smile appear—a silent acknowledgment that, despite everything, you were no longer strangers.

It was a new day, with new adventures in store for the both of you, together.

"Goodmornin', love."