The curse happened at a party.
Christening for the new princess. Twelve fairies invited, each giving a gift. Beauty, grace, wit. Like loading up a character sheet before the kid can hold her own head up.
They didn't invite the thirteenth fairy. Her name was Carabosse. She wasn't evil, she was just honest, and honest people at parties full of polite smiles make everyone uncomfortable.
She showed up anyway.
"Before she turns sixteen, she'll prick her finger on a spindle. And die."
The twelfth fairy hadn't gone yet. She was young, her hands were shaking, and she couldn't undo the whole thing.
"Not die. Sleep. A hundred years."
Best she could do.
The king burned every spindle in the kingdom. Tried to make a world with no sharp edges. It never works.
Aurora grew up happy. Had everything the fairies gave her. She didn't know what she was missing because nobody told her anything.
On her sixteenth birthday she found a door she'd never seen before. Behind it, stairs. At the top, an old woman spinning.
"What's that?"
"Come see."
She touched the spindle. One drop of blood. Her eyes closed.
Everyone in the castle fell asleep. The king, the queen, the cooks, the horses. Even the fire stopped. Thorns grew up around the whole place. Thick, covered in roses.
A hundred years went by. The castle became a story people told. Guys showed up with swords to cut through the thorns. None of them made it.
The one who got through wasn't stronger or braver. He was just on time. The hundred years were up. The thorns opened on their own.
He found her in the tower. Kissed her.
She opened her eyes.
"How long?"
"A hundred years."
She stood at the window. The world outside was completely different.
The prince stood next to her. Didn't say "it'll be fine." Just stood there.
"Tell me about it," she said. "The hundred years."
And he did.
That's what the story is about. Not the prince. Not the kiss. The sleep.
The long stretch where you pulled away from everything and the world kept going without you. You've done some version of it. Maybe not a hundred years. But a season. A year. That time after something happened where you just shut down and people couldn't reach you.
It ends when it ends. Not when somebody shows up. The thorns open when you're ready.
Goodnight.