One Hundred Years of Solitude

the slightest vestige of
affection. Once he opened
Melquíades room, looking for
the traces of a past from
before the war, and he found
only rubble, trash, piles of
waste accumulated over all
the years of abandonment.
Between the covers of the
books that no one had ever
read again, in the old
parchments damaged by
dampness, a livid flower had
prospered, and in the air that