A/N: So... despite being hard to understand in some places and overly symbolic, The Great Gatsby is actually an awesome story. It's a romance, so, y'know. What'd you expect from me? :P
Anywho. For an English assignment, we had to write an alternate ending. Some people wrote about Jay living and marrying Daisy, a friend wrote about Gatsby actually being Batman, yadda yadda. Well, I wrote about Nick's feelings on Gatsby's death, because Fitzgerald didn't tell us how Nick felt! Curse you...

So enjoy.

---In the style of Mr Fitzgerald, PoV is first person Nick.

Linger
The Final Run of Jay Gatsby

Somehow, with Gatsby dead, the world seems smaller and darker. Everyday I stop by his grave. I think it is the least he deserves: only a handful of people at his funeral did not seem fair or right after all the parties he threw. He was just one man with quite the history. But within that history, Daisy was such a huge part. And she couldn't even force herself to come to the funeral.

The rain is gone now, though the fog hangs around the city, dulling the lights and energy. I find myself at the cemetery once more. And – as always – I'm thinking as I stare at the smooth white marble of Gatsby's headstone that reads simply, "Jay Gatsby: 1889-1925 / It's not a party without you".

I am determined not to get too caught up thinking about it: that Daisy "was sorry she was busy" (or so she claimed when I was finally able to reach her on the phone at a hotel in Pennsylvania – this involved a lot of calling her friends to figure out her whereabouts). She claims something important came up with Tom's parents and they had to leave without warning. I'm not sure if I believe her; I'm not sure if she believes herself. Judging by the last time I saw her and Gatsby together, I'm not entirely sure if she was left with wholly happy memories about him.

A bird calls in the distance, and I'm unexpectedly startled from my thoughts. Another bird answers the first as I look up at the sky. A black crow sweeps in a wide arc against a backdrop of the heavy gray clouds that are moving slowly towards the east carried on the wind. A breeze picks up, dies down, and I find myself in the silence of the cemetery once again.

With the overcast weather throughout the past few days, I am led to believe that Nature itself is mourning the passing of Jay Gatsby when no one else could seem to manage it.

As I lay awake night after night, I still expect to hear the music, the laughter, the gaiety from next door. Nothing comes except the occasional tap of rain against the window or whistling gust of wind. The soft ticking of a clock in my room keeps me company through the silence. In the early morning, the birds wake and begin to sing. More than once, I have been awake to hear the progression of night into day.

It's shaping up to be another of those nights. I turn on my side to stare at the dim line of light beneath my door. A clock ticks the seconds by, each click reminding me of the passing minutes, the hours, the days since Gatsby has died.

Finally, from far away, a soft, haunting tune drifts through my walls. It takes me a moment to think of why music would be here in the first place. The only thing I can think of is one of the infamous parties next door. It's not as upbeat as the music usually is at the Gatsby manor. Hardly party music.

But that's not why it shouldn't be playing, something in the back of my head reminds me. It shouldn't be playing because there should be no one there to play it.

I'm hesitant, but I sit up and stare at the opposite wall. There is a slight rise in volume.

Without thinking, I'm out of bed and down the hall to a room with a window facing my neighbor. Sure enough, lights are on and people are milling about the lawn. That's odd… I didn't hear any people. Still, I can hear no laughter or chatting, though the figures are clearly amiable and talkative.

Stopping only long enough to snatch a robe from my room, I find myself heading down the stairs (skipping the last couple as though I was a kid again), through the front door (skipping the front step entirely, landing in the thankfully soft grass), and padding across the wet grass to the dark figures next door. No one takes notice of me, which I'm grateful for. The same something that reminded me earlier takes note in the back of my mind that I still can't hear any laughter or talking, despite being within arm's length of a number of people.

This doesn't seem to bother me in the least.

Before I can reach the front steps, the doors open and a man walks out, grinning broadly.

"Nick, old sport!" he calls, holding an arm out warmly to motion me inside. "How nice to see you again! I was expecting you!"

"G-Gatsby, I'm not… you are…" I find my tongue is tied – an unusual occurrence. But the entire situation is an unusual occurrence, so the inability to talk seems fitting.

His grin softens into a slight smile at my confusion. "Thank you, Nick," he says quietly (I am only able to hear him because of the lack of voices). Everyone around and between us took no notice that we had anything to say. "You did so much for me, and I don't believe that I once had thanks to say."

"It was… it was nothing," I manage, unable to tear my eyes from his silhouette, stark against the bright interior of his home.

He hitched up the silly grin again and raised a hand to wave. "Until we meet again, old sport!" He turned back into the house. Before I could move, the door was closed.

And, I noticed upon opening my eyes, it was morning.

I'm leaving today. I might go back to visit my parents. But I'm not entirely sure where I'll be going after that, if anywhere. Though one thing is for sure: never back to New York. It turns out (as my mother once hinted at a while ago) that it is too busy of a city for someone like me.

Bags in the taxi's trunk, I ask if he could take a detour so I could stop by the cemetery for one last visit. He obliges, though perhaps a bit reluctantly. I have no doubt that I am costing him valuable time and customers.

I walk down the rows of marble headstones, contemplating how to say my final goodbye as my shoes squish through the mud beneath my feet. The dream is still fresh in my mind, and I eventually decide that a simple "you're welcome" will suffice. If nothing else, I'm not sure what could be said that wasn't already.

My words fail, however, when I reach the grave. After a moment of shock, I manage a soft smile and nod to Gatsby. Then I turn and leave for the last time.

On the next breath of wind, the ghostly figure is swept away with a smile as he looks upon what remains at the base of his headstone: a single white rose, already moist with the morning's dew, a string of pearls around the stem.