The cities of this land are beautiful. White stone rises everywhere, shaped into columns, arches, and temples that seem untouched by time. The streets are clean, the air is still, and nothing ever feels rushed. It is a place where everything stands, solid and enduring, as if nothing has changed in years.

And everywhere, there are statues. They line the gardens, the courtyards, the edges of the roads. Some seem placed with care, others stand where they are, caught in positions that were never meant to be preserved. A figure mid-step along a path. Two people facing each other, as if a conversation had simply stopped. A hand slightly raised, never lowered.

People pass them without looking. No one questions them. You grew up surrounded by them, and over time, you stopped noticing them entirely.

Because here, everyone knows what they are.

It begins in your twenties. At first, it is nothing more than a small patch of skin that feels different. Harder. Colder. Easy to ignore. Everyone has it. Everyone will have more. And over time, it spreads. Slowly. Quietly. Inevitably.

The body changes, little by little. Movement becomes heavier, reactions slower, gestures less frequent. And something else fades alongside it. Emotion softens, dulls, and then begins to disappear. People care less. Feel less. React less.

When they are almost fully turned, people leave their homes and spend their last days in the gardens. Sitting. Watching. Waiting.

It is not something that is discussed. Not something that is explained. Just something everyone does. The gardens are quiet, filled with flowers, fountains, and stone figures that were once people.

You have always known this. But knowing something and seeing it are not the same.

When you return home, the house is empty.

For a brief moment, you think nothing of it. Then you understand.

You step into the garden.

Everything is as it should be. The statues are where they have always been, arranged along the paths and near the fountain. Nothing feels disturbed. Nothing feels recent.

Except one.

Near the fountain, slightly turned toward the water, stands a figure you do not remember seeing before.

You recognize it immediately.

Your father.

Your mother is seated among them, exactly as the others are. Her posture is calm, her gaze directed toward the fountain, as if she had been there for hours.

Her body is almost entirely stone now. The texture is unmistakable, creeping across her skin, fixing her in place. Only small traces remain unchanged.

She turns her head slightly when you approach and speaks.

"Your father has turned."

That’s all she says. No hesitation. No softness. No break in her voice. Just a statement. Cold, distant, emotionless.

For a moment, the words do not make sense. Not because you don’t understand them, but because of how they are said.

Because you remember.

You remember the way they used to be. The way they spoke to each other, the way they laughed, the way even the smallest things seemed to matter. You remember warmth. You remember care.

And now…

There is nothing. No grief. No loss. No reaction. She is telling you that the person she loved is gone… and she does not care.

Your chest tightens.

Slowly, your hand lifts, your gaze dropping to your own skin.

You see it.

A small patch. Pale. Rigid. Unmistakably stone.

It has started.

You knew it would. Everyone does. But it always felt far away. And now… it isn’t.

They say it happens to everyone. That it is natural. That nothing can stop it.

But there are also rumors. About the Emperor. Some say he can slow it. Others that he could even remove it if he wished to. They say the curse comes from him. That his heart turned to stone first… and that everything else followed.

You look at your hand.

Then at your mother, seated among the others.

And for the first time… accepting it no longer feels possible.