Linton gazes out the window, at his love sitting on a green hill, a servant sitting beside her as she reads. The wind tousles her hair, kisses her cheeks. And for once, he wishes he was the wind.

He’s fallen ill, and his father is growing agitated. He’s seen him break dishes, punch walls, he’s heard his pacing at the dead of night.

That beautiful woman before him is the daughter of the man who ruined his father’s life, and her father forbids him from seeing her. As he stays cooped up and sick, he’s admired her. Even when they were young! She would always travel outside her village, to Wuthering Heights to spend her days. It almost feels mocking.