After Prince Shen Rui left the palace,
Lin Yue began standing closer again.
Not to him.
To the spaces he used to occupy.
⸻
It was not announced.
There was no order assigning her to new duties.
No superior telling her where to go.
She simply adjusted.
One step closer to the eastern study at noon.
One pause longer near the outer hall during tea service.
One detour past the garden path he once favored at dusk.
The palace did not resist these changes.
It rarely did.
⸻
On the fifty-fourth day, Lin Yue carried a tray of simple food to the border office annex.
Rice.
Vegetables.
Clear broth.
Nothing special.
The kind of meal meant for people whose importance was temporary.
Prince Shen Rui was there.
Seated alone at a low table, reading dispatches that would never be archived properly.
He looked up when she entered.
No surprise.
No relief.
Just recognition.
"You're early," he said.
"Yes."
She placed the tray down and stepped back.
He did not dismiss her immediately.
Neither of them mentioned it.
⸻
Meals became like this.
Quiet.
Unremarked.
She brought food.
He ate.
Sometimes he spoke.
Often he did not.
Lin Yue learned the rhythm of his silence.
When it meant concentration.
When it meant fatigue.
When it meant he was done pretending the day mattered.
She did not interrupt.
She stayed.
⸻
The calendar turned.
**Fifty-sixth.**
Lin Yue no longer checked it at dawn.
She checked it after dinner.
When the day had already happened.
⸻
They rarely spoke about the future.
They spoke about weather.
About routes.
About the taste of tea when it cooled too long.
Once, he said, "You don't flinch anymore."
She replied, "Neither do you."
That was all.
⸻
Intentional proximity was not closeness.
It was alignment.
She did not touch him.
Did not reach.
Did not ask.
She sat where he could see her if he wanted.
She stood where he could leave without explanation.
She made herself present—but optional.
⸻
On the fifty-eighth day, rain came suddenly.
Lin Yue stood under the annex eaves, watching water flood the stone path.
Prince Shen Rui joined her.
"You like the rain," he said.
"I like what it does," she replied.
"What does it do?"
"It equalizes things," she said. "Everyone waits."
He considered that.
"Yes," he said. "They do."
They waited together.
⸻
The calendar turned again.
**Fifty-ninth.**
Lin Yue felt it before she saw it.
A shift.
Not in the world—
In him.
⸻
Prince Shen Rui began speaking less in meetings.
Listening more.
Leaving earlier.
Packing lighter.
One afternoon, she noticed his desk cleared of everything except one cup and a folded cloth.
"You're simplifying," she said quietly as she poured tea.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"So there's less to forget."
Her hand paused.
Then continued pouring.
⸻
That evening, she found herself sitting across from him without realizing how it happened.
No duty required it.
No order permitted it.
Just… habit.
They drank tea in silence.
The steam rose between them, blurring edges.
"Do you remember the first day we spoke?" he asked suddenly.
"Yes."
"You lied to me."
"Yes."
He smiled faintly.
"I was relieved when you stopped."
"So was I."
Silence settled again.
Comfortable.
Heavy.
⸻
On the sixtieth day, Lin Yue noticed something she had not expected.
She was no longer bracing for loss.
She was *using* the time.
Not to delay.
Not to bargain.
To exist properly.
⸻
She learned which documents he read twice.
Which routes he avoided after dusk.
Which questions he answered only once.
She adjusted her presence accordingly.
Closer when he needed witness.
Farther when he needed solitude.
Intentional.
Always intentional.
⸻
The calendar turned.
**Sixty-first.**
Lin Yue did not feel panic.
She felt… structure.
⸻
One night, as lanterns dimmed, Prince Shen Rui spoke quietly.
"You know this ends badly."
"Yes."
"You're still here."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Lin Yue looked at him.
Not with sadness.
Not with longing.
"With clarity.
"Because," she said, "this part still exists."
He nodded.
"That's true."
⸻
There was no confession.
No promise.
No touch.
But when he rose to leave, he paused.
"Tomorrow," he said, "sit with me again."
She inclined her head.
"I will."
⸻
After he left, Lin Yue remained seated.
She did not reach for the calendar.
She did not count days.
She simply sat in the space they had shared—
And understood.
Intentional proximity was not denial.
It was preparation done gently.
The calendar would continue.
History would continue.
But within the narrow space that still belonged to now—
They were here.
And for the moment—
That was enough.
The palace began to mistake Lin Yue's presence as part of the routine.
That was when it became dangerous.
⸻
On the sixty-second day, no one questioned why she was in the annex again.
Not the guards.
Not the clerks.
Not even the junior official who paused briefly when he saw her seated near the window.
Lin Yue lowered her head politely.
The official hesitated—then continued walking.
The palace accepted repetition as legitimacy.
⸻
Prince Shen Rui arrived later than usual that afternoon.
His steps were slower.
Not tired—measured.
Lin Yue noticed the absence of a document case at his side.
"You're done early," she said quietly as she poured tea.
"For today."
"That's rare."
"It won't be," he replied.
She did not ask why.
She already knew.
⸻
They sat without speaking for a long time.
The annex was warm.
The tea cooled too slowly.
Outside, voices drifted in and out—arguments that would not matter, agreements that would not last.
Inside, time behaved differently.
"You don't look at the calendar anymore," he said suddenly.
Lin Yue's hand paused only slightly.
"I look," she corrected. "Just not first."
He nodded.
"That means you've stopped measuring yourself against it."
"Yes."
"And started measuring the day instead."
"Yes."
Silence followed.
Then, quieter: "That's… impressive."
Lin Yue did not smile.
Compliments here were not gifts.
They were observations.
⸻
On the sixty-third day, a minor incident occurred.
A clerk misplaced a dispatch.
Voices rose.
Accusations formed quickly, eagerly.
Lin Yue watched from the edge of the room.
Prince Shen Rui listened.
Asked two questions.
Resolved it.
The clerk bowed repeatedly, shaking.
No punishment followed.
No reward, either.
As the room emptied, Lin Yue approached to clear the cups.
"You intervened," she said softly.
"Yes."
"That wasn't in the record."
He met her eyes.
"No," he agreed. "It wasn't."
Her chest tightened.
"Does that bother you?"
He considered the question.
"No," he said. "It won't last."
Lin Yue lowered her gaze.
That was the answer she needed.
⸻
Later, as she wiped the table, she noticed something new.
A faint tremor in his hand.
Only once.
Gone quickly.
She did not comment.
Observation did not require reaction.
⸻
On the sixty-fourth day, Lin Yue adjusted her presence again.
She arrived later.
Left earlier.
Not withdrawing.
Rebalancing.
Prince Shen Rui noticed.
"You're recalibrating," he said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because if I stay too long," she said carefully, "this stops being intentional."
He understood immediately.
"That would make it habit."
"And habit," she finished, "creates expectation."
Expectation was a word they avoided.
He nodded.
"Thank you."
⸻
That evening, Lin Yue returned to her quarters earlier than usual.
She opened the calendar.
**Sixty-fourth.**
She traced the number once with her fingertip.
Then closed it.
She did not turn the page.
She did not need to.
⸻
Sleep came unevenly.
Not restless.
Not deep.
She dreamed of corridors that narrowed the more she walked them—until only one person could pass through at a time.
She woke before dawn.
⸻
The sixty-fifth day arrived quietly.
Lin Yue completed her morning tasks without deviation.
By afternoon, she felt it again—
That subtle pull.
She went to the annex without being summoned.
Prince Shen Rui was already there.
"You're late," he said.
"Yes."
"On purpose?"
"Yes."
A pause.
"Good."
⸻
They did not sit across from each other that day.
They sat side by side.
Not touching.
Not aligned.
Parallel.
It changed the shape of the silence.
"You won't come tomorrow," he said.
Lin Yue did not ask how he knew.
"No."
"And the day after?"
"No."
He nodded slowly.
"Then this is… enough."
She inhaled.
"Yes."
⸻
He stood first.
As he did, he hesitated.
Just once.
"Lin Yue."
She looked up.
"If history forgets me," he said, voice steady, "will you forget this?"
She answered without pause.
"No."
That was all.
He left.
⸻
Lin Yue remained seated long after.
She did not move until the room emptied and the light shifted.
Only then did she rise.
She did not return the next day.
Nor the one after.
Intentional proximity did not mean permanence.
It meant knowing exactly when to step away.
⸻
On the sixty-eighth day, the calendar turned on its own.
Lin Yue watched it happen.
She did not stop it.
She did not flinch.
She simply acknowledged it—and continued living the day as it was.
Because the story was no longer about *when* things would end.
It was about how carefully the remaining time was held.
And she had learned how to hold it—
Without squeezing.