[Chapter 1] — Resurrection

In the decades that had passed, Gatsby had never experienced a situation quite like the one before him.

Is he dead?

Splashes of water lashed against Gatsby's face, refreshing and cool. He gazed at the blood slowly seeping into the emerald pool, vividly crimson, and the man before him was someone he knew all too well. His body descended slowly until it gently sank into the pool's depths. The man responsible for all this had already taken his own life, his lifeless form lying by the side of the swimming pool.

Gatsby approached, recognizing the man—Wilson, the owner of the garage, the husband of the woman Daisy had tragically struck.

"Hello, hello? Is everything alright?"

"Hello? Hello? Hello?"

"Hello? Is everything okay?" Nick's frantic calls echoed through the telephone, repeatedly jolting Gatsby from his wandering thoughts. In all the years of their friendship, Gatsby had never heard Nick's voice so filled with urgency, so trembling.

Gatsby hurried to the telephone, reaching out to pick up the receiver, but his hand passed right through it, touching nothing. "Hello, hello, what's happened? Is Gatsby alright?" Gatsby could only listen helplessly to Nick's increasingly fearful voice, unable to do anything. Confronted with Gatsby's self-blame, remorse, helplessness, and despair, Nick remained oblivious.

Gatsby's smile of old had vanished, replaced by a blank expression. He stared at the butler as he dialed the police. Before long, the mansion was overrun by a constant stream of police officers, photographers, and journalists. They circled the pool like a pack of wolves that had found their prey, relentlessly capturing photographs of his lifeless form in its grotesque posture. Flashbulbs pierced the water, illuminating the now pale back of the body.

Gatsby could only imagine the spectacle that would grace the front pages of tomorrow's newspapers.

...

"I'm looking for Mrs. Buchanan; I'm Mr. Carroway, her cousin."

"If you happen to see her, please tell her that Gatsby's funeral is tomorrow."

"She's gone?"

"Do you know when they'll be back?"

"Please, she'll definitely want to attend! Just tell her, please."

"Let me speak to her, I beg you!"

Gatsby was momentarily lost in a daze, realizing that Nick's earnest pleas had awakened him. He drifted over to the telephone, listening to the butler's stern voice on the other end.

"I don't know where she's gone, sir."

"Goodbye."

Before Nick could say more, the phone on the other end was already disconnected, leaving only a busy signal.

Gatsby was all too familiar with such actions; after all, he had often encountered unwanted calls that the old butler would handle in this perfunctory manner.

"Daisy wouldn't even spare me a glance?"

Darkness gradually descended upon the land, the once brilliant sunset losing its warmth and confidence, descending into desolation. Only the tear-stained afterglow remained...

Even in his ethereal state, Gatsby still felt the occasional piercing pain in his chest.

Nick hung up the phone, dazed for a moment, then saw a group of reporters relentlessly snapping photos of Gatsby's lifeless image. Anger ignited within him, and he rushed downstairs, shouting, "Get out! Get out, all of you!"

The usually mild-mannered Nick had become highly irritable. Together with the butler, he managed to drive away all the reporters and locked the gate.

"Sir, you..."

"You should leave too. Let me have some time alone with Gatsby," Nick interrupted him.

"Very well, sir."

With a sigh, the butler left the hall, closing the door behind him.

Nick approached the casket, stealing a glance at Gatsby's handsome face, just as it had always been. Then, he quickly averted his gaze, his emerald eyes brimming with tears.

Nick dared not look again, so he sat desolately on the floor beside Gatsby's casket. The mansion that had once been filled with laughter and joy was now empty and silent, like a graveyard.

No matter how extravagant the decorations, when the music ended and the guests departed, all that remained was a mess.

"Daisy and Tom, they're both cold and hypocritical people, but I've only just realized their true nature."

"Do you remember when I told you that people nowadays are utterly corrupt? All of them combined can't compare to you!"

"I mean every word of this, truly, they can't compare to you..."

Suddenly, something wet trickled down Nick's cheek, leaving a winding trail on his dry skin.

The rain fell harder, the sun having long lost its color, leaving only the lonely rain to drift.

Nick choked back tears for a while, letting them flow silently down his face. He composed himself for a moment before tremblingly saying, "It's all my fault.

I knew about Tom and his affair, but I didn't tell anyone. I knew it was Daisy who had killed Wilson's wife with her car, but I didn't inform the media to clear your name. I can't consider myself a good person."

Gatsby moved to Nick's side, sitting down beside him. They sat together, shoulder to shoulder, like true old friends who could talk about anything.

"No, this isn't your fault," Gatsby said, leaning over as if to pat Nick on the shoulder, but then he remembered what had happened with the telephone earlier.

He hesitated, curling his fingers before slowly retracting his hand.

In recent days, Nick had been busy dealing with matters related to Gatsby. Even during his moments of rest, when he closed his eyes, the scene of Gatsby bidding him farewell that day was vividly imprinted in his mind.

He felt as if his heart had been cruelly sliced open by a dull file, and sorrow flowed from the wound, spreading a blanket of melancholy. He couldn't quite grasp whether he felt sadness, but his heart was certainly tangled with complex emotions.

A glistening drop appeared in the deep hollows of his eye sockets. Suddenly, he covered his face with his hands and crouched down, convulsing violently as tears streamed silently through his fingers.

This bout of weeping left Nick utterly exhausted. He remained slouched against the cold casket, unknowingly slipping into slumber.

Gatsby studied his old friend closely. Before, he had always focused on Daisy, seemingly never paying such serious attention to Nick.

In just a few short days, Nick's once well-defined features had sunken deeply, his eyes devoid of spirit, his frame slender as if wrapped in a skin-and-bone cloak. He curled up alone in the corner, shrouded in darkness, devoured by loneliness.

His disheveled appearance, with hair tangled in strands, bangs covering his clouded eyes, encircled by heavy dark circles, and his mouth hanging low, made him look utterly desolate. Even his beard appeared neglected, forming rings of stubble, accentuating his air of desolation. His clothing, bearing countless marks and carrying a sour odor, bore witness to an indeterminate passage of time.

Even in slumber, Nick's eyelashes trembled slightly, reflecting his restlessness. He would occasionally furrow his brow and mumble incoherent words, a picture of profound sadness.

"Old sport, get some good rest," Gatsby murmured, gently touching his forehead. "Thank you."

As if sensing something, Nick's previously furrowed brow relaxed, and he peacefully drifted into slumber. Gatsby remained by his side, watching over him...