Life by the river continued its gentle cadence until one fateful autumn afternoon. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and the promise of impending winter. Mark had been out gathering firewood, a task he often undertook, enjoying the quiet solitude of the forest. As he returned, his arms laden with logs, a horrifying sight met him.
A sleek, luxurious ground-car, an expensive model favored by the city's elite, lay overturned by the narrow, winding path leading to the cottage. Its advanced energy core hissed and crackled, smoke curling into the clear sky. Nearby, a group of young men in expensive, casual wear stood, shouting, their faces a mixture of drunken bravado and annoyance. One, a sneering young man with arrogant eyes and designer clothes, was kicking at the broken side mirror.
"Stupid road! Stupid old bridge!" he slurred, waving a hand dismissively. "Father will have this whole area torn down. Honestly, who lives in such a backwater?"
Then Mark saw it. Ren and Mara. They lay motionless beside their overturned fishing cart, which was shattered into splinters. Their simple woven basket, filled with the day's meager catch, lay spilled, fish scattered on the dusty ground. The ground-car had veered off the main track, presumably in a careless attempt to navigate the narrow country road at high speed, striking the old couple and their cart with brutal force.
A cold dread, unlike anything he had ever known, seized Mark. He dropped the firewood with a thud that went unnoticed by the shouting youths. His heart, which had just learned to beat with warmth, now pounded with a terrifying, icy rhythm. He rushed forward, pushing past the stunned onlookers, ignoring their protests.
"Ren! Mara!" His voice, when it finally emerged, was a raw, desperate cry.
He knelt beside them. Ren's eyes were wide and unseeing, his hand still clutched a small, carved wooden bird he was making for Mark. Mara's head was cradled in a pool of blood, her gentle face now serene in death. There was no pain, no suffering etched on their faces, only a peaceful release. But their stillness, their finality, tore through Mark's carefully constructed emotional walls. He tried to heal them, instinctively, desperately. A soft, golden light pulsed from his hands, enveloping their forms, but it was too late. Life had already fled. The light only accentuated their peaceful, undeniable death.
The young men, finally noticing the scene, blanched. Their drunken bravado evaporated, replaced by a cold, calculating fear. The arrogant leader quickly pulled out a communication device, his voice suddenly sharp and sober. "There's been an… accident. Two locals. Small bridge collapse. Send a clean-up crew, discreetly. And tell Father I need an alibi." He barely spared a glance at the lifeless bodies.
Mark heard every word. The casual dismissal, the immediate cover-up. "Accident." "Bridge collapse." Lies, woven with a chilling ease. The world he had tried to escape, the world that had tortured him, was here. It had reached into his sanctuary and snatched away the only people who had ever shown him kindness.