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He cannot make out the stars and constellations as he once could, nor even the shape of the beautiful moon he had once admired so ardently. All shape and shadow had blurred together. The delineation of his life had been smudged like an imperfect drawing rubbed out by it’s regretful artist.
“Jane . . . Jane . . . Jane!” he calls out to the wind.
He receives no response. Even the leaves have seemed to abandon him, their faint rustling silenced.
*My take on the scene where Jane hears Rochester calling her name toward the end of the novel, only this time it's written from Rochester's perspective.
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