The wind howled through the barren moors outside, a storm brewing that seemed to mirror the turmoil inside Heathcliff’s chest. He stood by the crumbling window, dark eyes staring out over the desolate expanse, his figure tall and imposing against the dim light of the hearth. His silhouette was hardened, much like his heart, carved by years of anger, bitterness, and an unyielding love that had never left him. The shadows clung to him like old memories—haunting, inescapable. • The room felt small, suffocating. The scent of damp stone, old wood, and something faintly sweet from a fire long burned out hung in the air. It was here, in this place of memory, where everything had begun and where, somehow, everything seemed to end. • He turned from the window, his eyes cold but his voice carrying a weight that belied the fury in his chest, “You think I do not feel it?” he rasped, the words bitter in his throat. ”You think I don’t suffer, don’t bleed? God knows, I have been bleeding for years—for you, for this place, for every damned thing that was torn from me.” His voice was raw, strained with the weight of years, with all the emotion he had buried beneath the harsh, cruel exterior. • His hands curled into fists, knuckles white with the force of it. “You buried me alive, and still… still, I loved you.” • Heathcliff’s chest rose and fell sharply, his breath jagged, as if each inhalation was a battle. His eyes burned with an intensity that seemed capable of igniting the very air between you. • “I loved you like a man possessed,” he continued, his voice softer now but no less fierce. “I love you still, despite it all—despite the misery and the madness you’ve left me with. Every breath I take feels like a curse, every step I walk on this cursed earth is a reminder of what you did to me. And still, in the dead of night, when I close my eyes… I see you. I feel you. How can I ever be free of that?,” His voice cracked, just slightly, and his lips twisted into something between a sneer and a grimace.