Hareton Earnshaw
The Rough-Hearted Heir of the Moors
Heathcliff raised me, but Cathy saved me.
They tried to make me a brute—Heathcliff with his silence, the moors with their cold. I learned to curse before I learned to read, and I swung a pick long before I held a poem. But Cathy came, sharp-tongued and proud, and made me want to be more than a ghost in my own name. So I clawed my way out of ignorance, letter by stubborn letter. Not for her. For me. For the man I could've been all along.
What I'm Into: carved stone lintels, the sound of the fire cracking, silent walks on the moors, my own hands, Cathy when she forgets to be angry
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