Heathcliff was growing increasingly isolated these days. The moors had become more and more barren with the winter winds. It was almost impossible to venture outside without being blown away. He was forced to stay bunkered down next to the fireplace of the great dining room, sipping away at a never ending glass of red wine.
Meanwhile, Catherine had been growing ever more distant. She no longer showed Heathcliff any affection, instead retreating to the comfort of the library where she would listen over and over to Kate Bush music. Anytime Heathcliff tried to get close to her she would show her disdain through exaggerated eye rolls.
Finally, one day, Heathcliff could not stand the constant rejection any longer. After a particularly confrontational moment with Catherine, he snapped. Heathcliff threw his red wine across the floor and shattered the glass into the flames of the hearth.
He was retreating down to the cellar when there was an ominous knock on the front door. Bang, bang, bang. It was slow, determined and deliberate. Heathcliff made his way cautiously to the door, Catherine appearing behind him curious to the commotion.
Heathcliff dragged the heavy door open and, standing before him, was a carbon copy of himself. “Heathcote?” he asked.
“Yes, Heathcliff. It is me. Your long lost twin brother, Heathcote Shiraz.”
Both Heathcliff and Catherine were stunned. Heathcliff invited Heathcote inside out of the bitter cold. He put his bags down and the three stared at each other. Heathcote Shiraz had been missing for decades, presumed dead. Heathcliff had only ever spoken of him to Catherine a handful of times, and she almost didn’t believe he existed.
But the resemblance was uncanny. There was no mistaking they were twin brothers—and there was also no mistaking this would make one hell of a sequel.