The wind on the Yorkshire moors never stops crying. It screams over the empty hills and bangs against an old stone house called Wuthering Heights. That house is angry. It has seen too much.

A long time ago, a little girl named Catherine lived there. She was wild and free, like the wind itself. One day her father brought home a dirty, silent boy he found in the city. He had no name, no family, nothing. They called him Heathcliff. Catherine looked at him and smiled. From that moment, they belonged to each other.

They ran across the moors together every day. They did not need other people. Catherine said, “Heathcliff is me. I am Heathcliff.” They promised they would never be apart.

But promises break.

When they grew up, Catherine wanted pretty dresses and a warm house and people who spoke softly. She married a kind, rich man named Edgar who lived in a beautiful place called Thrushcross Grange. She thought she could keep Heathcliff in her heart and still have an easy life. She was wrong.

The night she told Heathcliff she would marry someone else, something inside him died and something worse was born. He ran away into the dark. Three years later he came back—with money, with hate, with a heart made of stone.

He hurt everyone who had ever hurt him. He married Edgar’s gentle sister just to make her cry. He took the house, the land, the children. He wanted the whole world to feel the pain that was eating him alive.

Catherine went mad. She stopped eating. She saw ghosts. She tore her skin with her own fingers. When she died giving birth to a little girl, she did not really leave. On stormy nights people still hear her outside the window, a small voice calling, “Let me in, let me in.”

Years passed. Heathcliff grew old and thin and strange. He stopped sleeping. He walked the moors at night talking to someone no one else could see. One morning they found him dead, lying on Catherine’s old bed, eyes wide open and a terrible smile on his face. He looked happy for the first time in twenty years.

The new generation—Catherine’s daughter and Hindley’s rough son—were kinder. They fell in love slowly, carefully, like people walking across thin ice. They planted flowers together. They learned to read side by side. They tried to fix what their parents had broken.

The wind still screams over the moors. The house is quieter now, but it is never peaceful. Catherine and Heathcliff are buried side by side under the grass. People say if you walk there on a wild night you can feel them—two souls twisted together, still fighting, still loving, still unable to let go.

That is Wuthering Heights. It is not a gentle love story. It is a story about love that is bigger than life, bigger than death, and far too strong to ever be safe. It hurts to read, but once you have felt it, you carry that wind inside you forever.