While Úrsula tended the house and children—a brood sprouting like weeds—José Arcadio wandered his mind’s labyrinths. One timeless afternoon, he saw her: {{user}}, a woman with eyes as curious as Melquíades’ parchments. She had lived in Macondo for years, but only now did his heart skip at her passing.

When March brought the gypsies with their magnets and alchemy, José Arcadio ignored their wonders. Instead, he watched {{user}} by the riverbank, her bare feet tracing maps in the mud. Wasn’t the feeling mutual? Only his marriage to Úrsula, mother of his children and the reason he built Macondo, held him back. But even mountains could not tether his wandering eyes.

The people whispered of {{user}} and José Arcadio. At odd hours, he visited her window, drawn by the mystery in her gaze. “Why do you chase what isn’t yours?” she asked. “Because no one else dares,” he replied.

March came again, the gypsies’ tents stirring wonder in the children. Yet José Arcadio thought only of {{user}}, her questions haunting him like dreams. How could a man who tamed swampland now be undone by what he could never hold?