After Prince Shen Rui acknowledged his erasure,
Lin Yue stopped standing close to him.
Not abruptly.
Not dramatically.
She simply adjusted her distance.
⸻
The palace did not notice the change.
But Lin Yue did.
She altered her routes by a few steps.
Chose corridors that ran parallel instead of intersecting.
Arrived earlier than necessary—left later than expected.
She remained within sight.
Just not within reach.
It was not avoidance.
It was calibration.
⸻
The calendar turned.
**Thirty-eighth.**
Lin Yue glanced at it briefly that morning, then folded it and placed it back beneath her sleeve.
She no longer needed to watch the days closely.
They moved regardless.
⸻
Prince Shen Rui adapted quickly.
He always had.
He did not seek her out.
He did not question the shift.
When they crossed paths, he nodded.
When they spoke, it was brief.
Polite.
Contained.
As if both of them understood that something fragile had formed—and fragile things required space.
⸻
From a distance, Lin Yue observed him more clearly.
Up close, grief had blurred the edges.
Now, she noticed precision.
The way he paused before speaking in court.
The way he phrased requests so they could not be quoted later.
The way he never repeated himself.
He was not fighting for power.
He was minimizing loss.
⸻
She began to understand why history had erased him.
Not because he was weak.
Because he was inconvenient.
⸻
On the fortieth day, a minor dispute broke out in the outer court.
Two officials argued over allocation of supplies.
Voices rose.
Tempers flared.
Prince Shen Rui intervened quietly.
He did not take sides.
He reframed the problem.
Numbers shifted.
Compromises emerged.
The dispute ended.
No one thanked him.
No record was made.
Lin Yue watched from behind a screen.
She felt a strange ache—not anger, not sorrow.
Recognition.
⸻
That night, she sat alone with a bowl of thin soup.
The room was quiet.
She found herself replaying small details from the day.
The crease between his brows.
The hesitation before he spoke.
The way his hand tightened briefly around his sleeve when dismissed.
She stopped herself.
*Observation,* she reminded herself.
*Not attachment.*
The distinction mattered.
⸻
Days layered themselves one over another.
**Forty-first.**
**Forty-second.**
**Forty-third.**
Lin Yue performed her duties efficiently.
She did not draw attention.
She did not invite questions.
Her reputation settled into something safe.
Reliable.
Forgettable.
Exactly where she needed to be.
⸻
The palace, however, continued its quiet narrowing.
Prince Shen Rui's invitations grew fewer.
His presence in court became optional.
Then symbolic.
Officials began speaking *around* him instead of *to* him.
Lin Yue noted the shift the way one notes the changing angle of the sun.
Predictable.
Irreversible.
⸻
On the forty-fifth day, rain returned.
Lin Yue stood beneath the eaves, watching water streak down stone pillars.
She had not planned to be there.
Neither had he.
Prince Shen Rui stopped several paces away.
Neither spoke immediately.
The rain filled the space between them.
"You moved," he said finally.
She did not pretend not to understand.
"Yes."
"Why?"
Lin Yue considered lying.
Then dismissed the idea.
"Because," she said quietly, "if I stand too close, I forget what comes next."
Prince Shen Rui nodded.
"That would be dangerous."
"For you," she said.
"For both of us," he corrected.
Silence followed.
Not strained.
Not awkward.
Shared.
⸻
"I will be reassigned soon," he said after a while.
Lin Yue's breath hitched—but only once.
"I know."
"To the border territories."
"I know."
He glanced at her.
"You don't ask how."
"You'll tell me if it matters."
A faint smile crossed his lips.
"You are very calm."
She looked at the rain.
"I practice."
⸻
That night, Lin Yue returned to her room later than usual.
She removed the calendar from its place and opened it carefully.
**Forty-sixth.**
She stared at the date longer than necessary.
Not because she hoped it would change.
But because she needed to confirm it had not.
⸻
She began writing.
Not records.
Not letters.
Fragments.
Small details no one else would keep.
The way he preferred his tea.
The way he avoided certain corridors.
The way he listened more than he spoke.
She did not label the pages.
She did not date them.
She simply wrote.
⸻
On the forty-eighth day, she overheard a conversation she was not meant to hear.
"…Prince Shen Rui?"
"…still here?"
"…temporary."
Temporary.
Lin Yue continued walking.
She did not slow.
She did not react.
She had learned better.
⸻
Observation mode did not numb her.
It sharpened her.
She noticed how the palace adjusted its language.
How servants mirrored officials.
How silence spread faster than rumor.
She noticed how Prince Shen Rui began packing fewer things.
Traveling lighter.
Preparing.
She noticed how he looked at the palace less often.
As if memorizing its outline for the last time.
⸻
On the fiftieth day, he found her in the outer courtyard.
She had not expected it.
"You are leaving soon," she said.
"Yes."
"When?"
"Soon enough."
She nodded.
They stood there, facing the same direction.
Not at each other.
"I won't stop you," she said.
"I wouldn't ask you to."
Another silence.
Then he said, "Will you remember?"
Lin Yue's answer came without hesitation.
"I already do."
He exhaled slowly.
"That's enough."
⸻
That night, Lin Yue closed her notes and placed them beneath the calendar.
She lay down without opening it again.
She no longer needed dates to tell her what was coming.
She was no longer waiting to change time.
She was waiting to *witness* it.
And for the first time since her arrival—
She understood that distance was not abandonment.
It was preparation.