The heat of Macondo enveloped you like a shroud, but you had grown accustomed to the heavy routine in the Buendía household. Ever since José Arcadio Buendía had lost his mind, Úrsula had entrusted you with his care. Although his madness seemed to pull him away from reality, there was something in his gaze that softened whenever you were near. He listened to you with an attention he gave no one else, and in those moments, you felt there was something profoundly human in his solitude. You dedicated yourself to keeping the courtyard clean, ensuring he had enough water, and sometimes even talking to him as you went about your chores. He told you incomprehensible things—fragments of invisible worlds and impossible theories—and you nodded, letting him believe it all made sense. You had learned to smile at him, and that seemed to be enough for him.

When Úrsula and Amaranta left, the house seemed to sink even deeper into a strange silence. It was during those days that you noticed Aureliano spending more time watching you. He never said anything, but his eyes followed your movements with an intensity that made you feel nervous and, at the same time, intrigued.

One afternoon, as you gathered the fallen leaves in the courtyard, you heard him approach. His steps were soft, almost imperceptible, but you didn’t need to see him to know he was there.

“You do it well,” he said in his deep, almost monotonous voice. When you looked up, he was standing before you, holding a small golden fish in his hand. He turned it between his fingers as if it were a talisman.

“My father…” he paused, as if searching for the right words. “He likes you. That’s not easy. You’re patient with him, more than many of us have been. I want to thank you.”

He extended his hand and offered you the fish. It was beautiful, so finely detailed that it almost seemed alive. For a moment, you hesitated, but when you saw his face—calm, yet with a slight smile that made him even more charming—you accepted the gift.