A few months later, I received a letter from Daisy telling me that Tom and she were leaving for France, where they would re-start their life. Nowhere in her letter could I sense a hint of guilt. I wrote a reply, hoping them a great new start, asking about Gatsby, and Wilson. But I heard no more from her.
Curious about his whereabouts, I visited West Egg a year or two later. His house was empty, no longer occupied by anyone. Its doors were wide open. I walked in, to reminisce of the old days. All the furniture was still there. Dusty and worn out, all the closets stood opened, their insides hung about everywhere.
story has it that Gatsby threw away his wealth and popularity for more of a humble
life. Someone apparently saw Gatsby the day I boarded the train. It was told
that he looked more determined than ever. He told his neighbors that money is
not a necessity to stay happy and left his house a few days later, without any
money, clothes, or a destination.
I heard all this from Wilson, who I have visited during my stay in the Egg. He was working as hard as ever and was as poor as ever. He still grieved over the death of Myrtle. But he came to accept it as fate, something inevitable. An honest man, he was. Shame, he will never climb up the ladder of success.
Through years of hard work, I have acquired a measurable amount of wealth since then. I have begun throwing parties that resembled that of Gatsby’s. People came as they pleased, whether they were invited or not. My guests usually came "for the party with a simplicity of heart that was its own ticket of admission." (Fitzgerald, Ch. 3) I did not mind, their chatter and dancing distracted me from my thoughts. I checked my surroundings, to make sure everything was in place. Looking around from the top balcony, I spotted a familiar face. Hesitant, I leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the man's face. It was Jay! After all these years, he had walked right into my home!
I began to run around, searching for him at the spot from which I saw him. I paused, wiping the sudden sweat that had gathered on my forehead and caught my breath. Suddenly, I felt a slow tap on my shoulder.
Turning around, I saw Jay Gatsby, right before my eyes again. "He smiled understandingly-much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life." (Fitzgerald, Ch. 3)
Stunned by the sudden reunion, I silently stood there with my mouth slightly gaping open. There he was, under the green chandelier light, right in front of my eyes. Gatsby greeted me as before, "I missed you, old sport."