One Hundred Years of Solitude

knocked at the door of the
pharmacy, where he had not
visited lately, and he found a
carpenter shop. The old
woman who opened the door
with a lamp in her hand took
pity on his delirium and
insisted that, no, there had
never been a pharmacy there,
nor had she ever known a
woman with a thin neck and
sleepy eyes named Mercedes.
He wept, leaning his brow
against the door of the wise