the music drifted through the walls like smoke — soft at first, then swelling into that golden chaos that never seemed to end. outside, his garden burned with light, laughter spilling out into the summer air. gatsby stood in the doorway of his daughter’s room, one hand still dusted with glitter from the party he wouldn’t let her attend.

he felt foolish about it now. too much noise, too many strangers, too little trust. she’d inherited that same glimmer in her eyes that he used to see in mirrors — that restless, new-money hunger for something more. she wanted the world, and he’d built it all just outside her window.

in his other hand, he held the small box — a gift he’d found weeks ago in a quiet moment of guilt. something soft, thoughtful, unnecessary. he cleared his throat before speaking, voice lower than the jazz outside.

“it isn’t much,” he said quietly, placing it by her bedside.

she glanced at it, then at him — that same Gatsby smile flickering for a second before she rolled her eyes, half teasing, half forgiving.

he laughed under his breath, stepping back toward the hallway light. she didn’t need a ballroom yet, he told himself. just time. and something better than the kind of love he kept trying to buy.

the night roared on outside, but in that quiet upstairs room, he felt more alive than the thousands downstairs ever made him feel.