The first thing August felt was the unnatural cold. Not the biting chill of winter, but a deep, seeping cold that seemed to drain the warmth from his very bones and thoughts alike. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, glued shut. He tried to move, to twitch a finger, and found he could not. Panic, cold and sharp, flared in his chest, but even that felt distant, muted. He was trapped.
A memory, not his own, flickered through his mind: a sky the color of a fading bruise, a sun like a dying ember, and a collective gasp of terror as twilight began to bleed away. "No-moon Night," the words echoed with a primal fear he did not understand but felt in his soul.
He was stone. His body was petrified, a statue of flesh and bone locked in place, his joints frozen, his chest squeezed tight by the curse. He could feel the rough texture of the wall against his back, the grit of dust on his skin, but he could not move an inch. Trapped within the prison of his own body, his mind raced. This was not his world. Just moments ago—or was it a lifetime? —he had been August, a university student pulling an all-nighter. A blinding headache, a flash of light, and then... this. This cold, silent darkness.
Then, the whispers began.
They slid into his mind, not as sounds, but as invasive, foreign thoughts. They promised impossible secrets, answers to all his questions, and knowledge that could remake the world. "These voices belong to what we call stars—the sentient, patient, malevolent flames burning in the endless dark." The memories flooding his mind warned him: gaze upon the stars, and you invite madness; listen to their whispers, and you surrender your soul.
"Look at us", their harmony as beautiful as it was disturbing. We know what you want.
We know what you are —a lost soul in a dying land.
August fought back, focusing on the only thing he could control: his own thoughts. He screamed within himself, "l won't listen!"—a raw, defiant roar tearing through the cosmic voices. He clung to his memories: the scent of rain, the faint warmth of cheap coffee, his sister's smiling face. Anything to stay himself, anything to block out the voices. Sometimes, the whispers faded into half-heard murmurs. Sometimes they solidified— pleading, threatening, mourning, always more voices than he could count.
Just as he felt his mental walls beginning to crack, a new sensation pierced the cold. A faint, stubborn warmth spread from the base of his spine. A spark, small but real, flickered in an ocean of icy despair. "Prana." He didn't understand the word, but it settled into him with the certainty of truth—"the life force that pulsed through this cursed world." He clung to it, nurturing the fragile heat as if it were the last candle in a hurricane. It was a pathetic defense against the whispers of the stars.
The warmth grew, inch by painful inch, seeping into his limbs, tingling in his stonelocked fingers. It wasn't enough to break the curse, not yet. But as the whispers continued to press in, promising him the world in exchange for his sanity, that tiny spark of prana became his anchor. It was the proof that he was still here, still himself.
He did not know how he had arrived in this world of dying suns and stone curses. He did not know what the whispers wanted or why he was trapped in this body. But as the endless night wore on, one thought burned brighter than any star: he would not break. He would survive this night, and he would find a way to become more than just a statue.
He would fight back.
The darkness pressed against him like a living thing, heavy and oppressive. It coiled around his thoughts, dulling the edges of who he once was. It would have been so easy to surrender, to drift into the stillness and become one with the shadows. After all, what hope was there for a man alone in a fractured world where even the stars seemed to be fleeing? Yet, in the core of his being, the tiny ember of resolve burned, defying the cold. That ember carried memories—blurred and disjointed, yes, but still there—of laughter, sunlight, and a name. It was the last remnant of the person he had been, and he clung to it with every fiber of his will.
August couldn't tell if it had been hours or just a few moments before he finally felt his left hand move a little. When it happened, he noticed a gentle bit of warmth from the evening sun outside, barely reaching him. It wasn't much, but it made him feel a little better, like the sun hadn't forgotten about him. As each small feeling and sign of movement returned, August paid attention to them, grateful for every bit, just holding onto that small comfort as much as he could.
A tiny crack appeared across his chest. He waited for what felt like forever— though it could have just been a few seconds—until more cracks showed up. Pieces of stone started falling off his skin.
Underneath, he could finally feel his body again, and it hurt a lot. It was like sharp pins and needles everywhere, but he kept pushing through. He put all his effort into hanging onto the bit of strength and energy he had, determined not to give up.