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Inspired by Wuthering Heights and a similar pictures I just did of Franz Schubert. Emily Brontë, age 28 sits by candle light writing her only novel, Wuthering Heights. Consumption has already claimed her two eldest sisters and her alcoholic brother teeters on the brink of madness. Her own health beginning to fail, Emily crafts a tale that will shock the literary world with its brilliant narrative scheme and passionate, vindictive characters. Above all, there's a miasmic, ethereal quality to Wuthering Heights: a misty curtain rising off the moors Emily so loved to roam. It blurs the line between this world and the next. Lost souls, impatient for reunion, call their loved ones to lay down their burdens and go for a stroll through the wild countryside. The siren song that lures Heathcliff to his strange death echos the pull toward peaceful oblivion Emily must resist long enough to finish her work. Nevertheless it waits, a pestering and impatient presence here embodied by young Heathcliff.