Morning came thin and cold.
The sky was the color of old iron, and frost clung to the undersides of every branch.
Marcus stood where Eshara had left him.
She was already walking farther upriver, searching for roots and herbs.
He looked down at the snow drifting across his bare feet.
His mind felt restless.
Without thinking too hard, he picked his way back to the bend of the river where he'd first seen the old man.
The old fisherman was there, crouched by a patch of snow-dusted earth, inspecting tracks.
He looked up as Marcus approached, one bushy eyebrow rising.
"Well," he drawled, "I'll be damned. You're still alive."
Marcus managed a small, crooked smile.
"Apparently."
The old man stood, brushing snow from his gloves.
"Nothing trying to eat you today?"
"Not yet."
"Hmph." He gestured to a second rod propped against his pack.
"You know how to fish?"
"Not really."
"Then today's your lesson."
Marcus hesitated.
Then he stepped forward and took the rod.
The old man nodded once in approval.
They sat on the riverbank in companionable silence for a time.
Snow flurried across the slow current.
The old man watched the treeline across the water with a practiced calm.
"Need to be sure there aren't too many bears around here," he said after a while.
"Don't like surprises when the grandkids come."
Marcus nodded, though he could feel the tension in his shoulders easing just to be around someone who wasn't Eshara—someone who felt…normal.
After a long moment, Marcus asked quietly:
"Can I ask you something?"
The old man didn't look away from his line.
"Go ahead."
Marcus glanced down at the river sliding under the ice.
"Why do you think so many scientists…especially the ones from the core of the population…spend their lives studying the brains of geniuses?"
The old man's eyebrows rose.
"Big question for a morning of fishing."
Marcus didn't smile.
"They wait until those people die," he went on. "They open the skulls. They look at the folds and the weight and all those tiny differences."
"Trying to find something," the old man said softly.
Marcus nodded.
"What do you think they're looking for?"
The old man was silent so long Marcus thought he wouldn't answer.
Then he sighed.
"I think…they're hoping to see what can't be seen."
Marcus turned to look at him.
"They want to find the thing that makes someone impossible to limit," the old man said.
"They want to see if it's something you can measure—some twist in the grey matter, some spark no one else has."
He looked out across the cold water.
"But it's never just mutations."
Marcus swallowed, remembering Eshara's voice:
There is no instantly perfect body.
The old man went on:
"Sometimes it's just…that certain bodies don't hold on to the limitations. Over time, the body breaks them."
Marcus felt something in his chest shift—like a door creaking open.
"And over enough time," the old man continued, "everything gets mixed. All the molecules. All the dust from stars no one remembers."
He flexed his gloved hands.
"They call it the cosmic ocean, son. Been swirling longer than any story we can tell."
His eyes turned back to Marcus, bright and tired all at once.
"And there's more unseen than you or I will ever name. But that doesn't mean you can't feel it when you're close."
Marcus looked down at his rod, the line trembling in the current.
"Someone told me I'd rediscover it," he murmured.
"That I'd see what was hidden."
The old man smiled faintly.
"Sounds like good advice to me."
Snow was falling thicker now.
Marcus set the rod down and rose, brushing frost from his thighs.
On the far bank, a shape moved between the trees—silent and tall.
Eshara.
She was standing at the edge of the woods, watching him.
He turned back to the old man.
"Thank you," he said.
The old man nodded.
"You ever figure out your answers," he said, "come find me. I'll be here most winters."
Marcus hesitated.
"Maybe I will."
He took one step toward the river, then looked back as the old man shifted his pack.
"I'll be stopping by again," the old man called over the wind.
"If you're still in these parts, you can say hello."
Marcus nodded.
"I'd like that."
The river was bitter cold, numbing his legs as he waded in.
He looked back once, raising a hand.
The old man lifted his rod in a parting salute.
Then Marcus pushed through the water, the current pulling at his knees.
Eshara waited without moving.
When he climbed onto the far bank, shivering, she watched him without a word.
Finally, she spoke.
"Do not talk to that old hunter again."
Marcus frowned, chest heaving.
"He didn't do anything."
"He is still watching," she said.
"And there are many who pretend to be harmless until they are not."
Her eyes darkened.
"We will be leaving this place soon."
Marcus looked down at the ground, the ache in his chest sharpening.
"He was kind," he murmured.
Eshara tilted her head.
"Kindness does not always mean safety."
Her gaze softened just enough to make his heart twist.
"You will understand," she said.
"Before this is done, you will understand all of it."
She turned, her coat brushing his side as she stepped past him.
And without another word, Marcus followed her into the trees.