The moors are beautiful, even in death.
They are hazier now. Not fully there. Neither is he. Neither is Catherine.
Their spirits swirl with the wind, melting together at times.
Edgar Linton is here too. Not his spirit, but his body.
Catherine was preserved by the ground that she loved; he thinks Linton wasn't (hopes Linton wasn't, damn him).
He thinks (thinks?) he would feel happy about this afterlife. Wandering with Catherine. His soul whole again.
He is empty. He is wind. So is Catherine.
She doesn't torture him anymore.
(Doesn't she?)
The moors are beautiful.