The first few weeks were a delicate dance of rediscovery. Mark's body hummed with an unfamiliar, vibrant energy, a silent symphony beneath his skin. He felt stronger, faster, his senses unnervingly acute. He could hear the faint rustle of a mouse in the walls, smell the approaching rain long before it touched the earth, see the intricate veins in a leaf from across the room. These newfound abilities were a quiet marvel, a secret he kept close, instinctively. He learned to control the subtle tremors of energy that sometimes threatened to spill from his fingertips, to mask the occasional flash of unearthly light in his eyes. He wasn't ready to explain what he didn't yet understand himself.
Mara patiently taught him the rhythms of the cottage: how to fetch water from the well, tend the vegetable garden, mend fishing nets. Ren showed him how to bait a hook, read the river currents, and chop wood with an efficient, practiced swing. Mark absorbed everything, his mind a sponge. His initial emotionless state slowly began to thaw. He wasn't a child anymore, but a young man, and the genuine kindness of Ren and Mara was a foreign, yet deeply comforting, balm to his scarred soul.
He learned to feel. The warmth of Mara's hand as she passed him a bowl of stew, the quiet pride in Ren's eyes when he successfully mended a net, the gentle banter between the old couple as they reminisced. These small acts of affection chipped away at the icy walls around his heart. He felt a quiet contentment, a sense of belonging he'd never known. He began to help more, using his concealed strength to lift heavy logs, his enhanced agility to navigate treacherous terrain, his sharpened senses to find the best fishing spots. He became their quiet protector, their strong, silent son.
He would often sit by the riverbank for hours, watching the currents, the sunlight dappling through the leaves, lost in a daze. Faint echoes of his past would occasionally surface: the metallic tang of the lab, a fleeting image of a stern female face, the searing pain of the final experiment. He pushed them away, unwilling to shatter the fragile peace he had found. The old couple never pressed him, respecting his silences, accepting him as he was. Their cottage became his sanctuary, a bubble of peace in a world he dimly remembered as cold and cruel. He felt a burgeoning, fierce loyalty to them, a nascent love he didn't dare articulate but demonstrated through his actions. He was Mark Stormvale, but in their eyes, he was simply their 'boy,' and that was enough.