His swollen eyes finally close, done with the harsh grey day. He is done with the mourning and sighing for her who abandoned him (dumped him) two days before their wedding day. She left and he is tired so he closes his swollen red eyes.

He is used to seeing her, sensing her, each day. Fragments of a nose, a lingering scent, a familiar look. He would smile, and then turn, and see more than just a fragment but a whole nose, a face, her whole self, arms sweeping him into a hug. Then she died and this happy amalgam of her traits found in humanity, the general public, turned into a curse. He sees fragments of a nose and he still turns but there is nothing and all he has is that fragment: a shattered face. So he closes his swollen red teary eyes. But even with eyes closed he sees her; she is his Catherine on the windy moors, and in his Heathcliff brain she will not let him alone. She will never let him alone. He is haunted, night upon night, with a fragment of a nose.