James took his ninety-eighth step.

He could feel the weight of time pressing on his shoulders. Two more, and he would be frozen in place until dawn. The curse had started a month ago,Tom Davison thought he still didn’t know why. Every morning at sunrise, he could move again—but only for a hundred steps. No running, no jumping, just one hundred careful movements before his body locked up like a statue.

Ninety-nine.

The village lights flickered in the valley below. He was close, but not close enough. He had hoped to reach someone before dark, before his body stiffened in place. He had tried riding a horse, but the curse wasn’t fooled—after a hundred hoofbeats, the horse froze too.

One step left.

His final footfall landed on a flat stone. He clenched his fists. He was still half a mile from the village. Tomorrow, another hundred steps wouldn’t be enough.

James exhaled sharply. His body turned rigid. He couldn’t move his hands, his mouth, even his eyelids. He was trapped in the silence of his own stillness.

Hours passed. The wind howled. Shadows stretched across the hills.

Then—footsteps.

Soft, deliberate. Someone was coming.

A girl in a red cloak emerged from the darkness, lantern in hand. She stopped in front of him, studying him like a strange artefact. Then she whispered, "You too?" and lifted her foot.

One hundred.

She froze.

James stared, unable to speak, but understanding now: he wasn’t alone.

The curse wasn’t just his.

The valley below was filled with statues. People like him. Waiting. Counting. Walking their slow, endless journey; a cursed march. one hundred footsteps at a time.