One day, a few months later, once everyone had again forgotten Gatsby's name, I found myself at his house.

I'd been in West Egg to visit a relative, and it was a beautiful day, so I decided to park my car and walk along the shore.

I found myself at his house. Only when I arrived did I realize I'd been wanting to go there all along, pulled by the invisible threads of destiny which ruin so many lives and advance so many others.

The mansion was just as stunning as it'd always been, perhaps even more so without all of the people cluttering it. But it seemed hopeless, somehow, empty and used and alone.

The sun caught the smooth marble and reflected it back at me. I looked at the blinding glare of a second-story window and realized it was the library window, the one Gatsby had looked out of so intently the first night I'd met him.

I turned around, shading my eyes with my hand, and looked directly across the bay, but the green light was gone, gone like my illusions of the man who had so desperately clung to it.

A noise from my left startled me, and I turned abruptly, feeling guilty, as if I'd been caught trespassing on the sordid details of someone else's life.

A man in a crumpled suit with his hat in his hand stood a few feet away. It was the man with the dark blue eyes from the party.

"I'm sorry," he said, though neither of us knew what he was apologizing for; perhaps he wasn't apologizing to me at all. "I didn't think anyone would be here . . ."

His tie was crooked and his face needed a shave and gin was on his breath. His eyes were lighter in the sunlight than they'd been at the party, but they still held an inimitable sorrow and confusion which bled through every aspect of his mannerisms.

"I . . ." I'm not quite sure what I had been about to say, but I switched directions abruptly. "I came to parties here once, and I met Gatsby. He was very kind; I tore my gown, and he sent me a new one. It's a terrible tragedy."

He didn't say anything for a long pause, but rather looked at me deeply. He must have sensed some masked emotion behind my words. I got the impression that he was a man used to observing others, and honest enough so as not to delusion himself about their virtues, or their vices. This relentless honesty was perhaps the true reason for the despair in his eyes.

"He didn't do it," he said finally, looking at me but not quite meeting my eyes, as if too exhausted by the weight of other people's lives to lift his head all the way. "Daisy was driving."

"Daisy . . ."

"My cousin. He loved her; was in love with her, in fact." He motioned around him nonspecifically. "All of this was for her. She lived just across the bay."

"The green light . . ."

"The green light was hers." He frowned, as if wondering how I knew about the light. I got the inane sense that he was questioning if I were indeed real, or just a figment of his overworked mind. Apparently deciding it didn't matter, he continued, "She's gone now, and so is the light. She and her husband left right after it happened. Didn't even come to the funeral."

I did not know what to say. Emotions too deep for words flooded through me. Relief, sorrow, anger. Anger at the beautiful and lucky woman who had been loved by Gatsby, and who did not even have the decency to attend his funeral.

"That's . . ." My mind searched for a word to sum everything up, but failed. Words did not seem proper, and yet there was nothing to do but talk.

"Tragic?" He shrugged. "It's real life." Then, perhaps regretting his bitterness, he added, "At any rate, I'm glad I knew him. Not many people got that opportunity."

I nodded. "I met him only once, briefly, but I feel I know him, too; know him more than perhaps all but a few people do."

Another pause, but not awkward; rather, pregnant with the deep emotions of two souls who did not know how to express what they were feeling.

"My therapist says I should write it down." He laughed sardonically. "But . . ." He shrugged, and all the shattered illusions in the world were contained in the defeated motion of his world-wearied shoulders.

The idea seemed absurd to me, too. Something as flat as paper could never express the complex mystery of the man named Jay Gatsby, and it seemed futile to even try. But perhaps the most futile tasks are the only ones truly worth accomplishing.

"I'm Nick. Nick Carraway," he said, telling me his name after he had told me his sorrow.

"Lucy," I said, and shook his hand loosely. "And thank you for . . . for telling me he didn't do it."

Nick nodded. He understood why this mattered to me. I believe he even knew I'd been in love with Gatsby. His dark eyes lingered on me for one long pause and then, giving me a thin-lipped smile, he turned and began to walk away.

When he reached the end of the grass, he turned back. "He was," he said staggeringly, "the most hopeful man I've ever known."

And with those words, he left. I never saw Nick Carraway again, but I will forever be struck by how deeply he was attuned to the sufferings of others, and how much they affected him. His simple honesty made him perhaps the deepest person I've ever met.

And Gatsby. No longer a murderer; rather, a protector of the woman he loved.

I loved Jay Gatsby. Perhaps I still do. Or, perhaps I love the idea of him. He was deep and hopeful and passionate and like no other man I've ever known.

And reaching. Always reaching, stretching, yearning for that green light, the future of the past. His desire for the unattainable was his fatal flaw, but also his saving grace.

And so, I loved a man who could never love me back, a man who did not even know I existed because all he could see was the light of the woman he loved. He was an impossible man to save; the only thing that could have saved him was returning to the man he'd once been.

I think back on Nick Carraway's words often. "At any rate, I'm glad I knew him."

And while Gatsby will never know it, because of him, I love more deeply, live more boldly, laugh more loudly. Because of him, my world has color, bright as the radiant yellow of my party gown.