The palace did not change because Prince Shen Rui was leaving.
That was the cruelest lesson.
⸻
On the sixty-ninth day, the morning bell rang at the same hour.
Servants rose.
Officials assembled.
Documents moved from one table to another.
Lin Yue woke, washed, dressed, and folded her bedding with the same precision she had practiced since her arrival.
The calendar lay on the table.
She did not touch it.
She already knew the number.
⸻
When she stepped outside, the courtyard smelled faintly of damp stone and old leaves. The weather was mild. Neither kind nor hostile.
Perfectly indifferent.
Lin Yue joined the servants' path without hesitation.
No one stopped her.
No one redirected her.
The palace had accepted her place.
⸻
The first conflict of the day surfaced before noon.
It always did.
Two departments disputed jurisdiction over a storage annex near the eastern wall. The issue itself was trivial—access rights, inventory lists, sealed approvals—but the tone escalated quickly.
Lin Yue stood near the doorway, tray in hand, listening without appearing to.
Voices overlapped.
"This annex was under our authority last quarter."
"That was provisional."
"Provisional decisions still stand unless overturned."
"By whom?"
Silence followed.
Then a name was almost spoken.
Almost.
Lin Yue felt the tension shift.
Prince Shen Rui's absence was felt not as loss—
But as uncertainty.
⸻
A senior official cleared his throat.
"We will follow the previous arrangement," he said briskly. "No need to escalate."
No one objected.
The conflict resolved itself.
Exactly as it had in the original record.
Lin Yue exhaled slowly.
Different voices.
Same outcome.
⸻
By midday, the palace moved on.
Another issue surfaced.
Another compromise was reached.
Another decision was quietly forgotten.
Lin Yue delivered tea, replaced incense, adjusted curtains.
Life continued.
That was the problem.
⸻
At the outer hall, she overheard two junior officials speaking in low voices.
"…border reassignment?"
"…temporary."
"…he won't be back."
The words did not strike her like a blow.
They slid past her instead—familiar, expected.
She kept walking.
⸻
In the afternoon, a messenger arrived.
Dusty.
Travel-worn.
He bowed quickly, spoke with an official near the records room, and handed over a sealed dispatch.
Lin Yue was tasked with carrying it to the archives.
Her steps slowed slightly.
She knew what the dispatch contained.
Not the details.
The *effect*.
She placed it on the table.
The archivist glanced at it, nodded, and slid it into a stack marked *Pending*.
No urgency.
No alarm.
Lin Yue watched.
The palace swallowed information the way it swallowed people.
Quietly.
⸻
Later that day, a servant tripped in the corridor and spilled a basin of water.
She froze, terrified.
The senior attendant scolded her sharply.
Apologies followed.
Cleanup followed.
No punishment was issued.
Lin Yue recognized the pattern.
A small mercy today.
A larger cruelty tomorrow.
Balance was not kindness.
It was maintenance.
⸻
On the seventy-first day, Lin Yue was reassigned again.
This time to the inner service corridor near the administrative offices.
Closer.
But not close enough to matter.
She accepted the assignment without comment.
She always did.
⸻
The administrative offices were louder.
Not in volume.
In consequence.
Words spoken here traveled farther.
Decisions made here lasted longer.
Lin Yue moved carefully.
She learned which conversations to ignore.
Which pauses to avoid.
She learned which officials spoke with certainty—and which spoke with borrowed authority.
She also learned something else.
Prince Shen Rui's name was no longer avoided.
It was replaced.
⸻
"Who handled this before?"
"It was delegated."
"To whom?"
"…someone temporary."
Temporary.
Lin Yue kept her expression neutral.
The word followed her throughout the day.
Temporary.
Interim.
Provisional.
Language adapted quickly.
⸻
That afternoon, she passed by the eastern gate.
A small procession moved through—guards escorting a supply convoy outward.
Routine.
Unremarkable.
No banners.
No farewells.
Lin Yue watched until it disappeared beyond the wall.
She did not search for a familiar figure.
She already knew better.
⸻
The calendar turned that night.
She felt it without looking.
The shift was subtle now.
Not sharp.
Like a breath taken somewhere else.
⸻
On the seventy-second day, another conflict arose.
This one louder.
An official accused another of misusing authority during a previous border decision. Voices rose. Accusations sharpened.
Lin Yue stood near the door, holding documents that would not matter.
The argument reached a peak.
Then—
It deflated.
A senior figure intervened.
A compromise was declared.
Responsibility blurred.
No one won.
No one lost.
The palace returned to equilibrium.
Lin Yue realized something then.
Prince Shen Rui had not been erased because he failed.
He had been erased because the palace could function without him.
⸻
That night, Lin Yue sat alone in her quarters.
She opened the calendar.
**Seventy-third.**
She traced the number once.
Then closed it.
⸻
She remembered the way Prince Shen Rui resolved disputes.
Quietly.
Efficiently.
Without spectacle.
She remembered how problems bent around him—not because he forced them to, but because he removed friction.
The palace had adjusted.
Not by improving.
By redistributing burden.
⸻
On the seventy-fourth day, Lin Yue overheard laughter near the servants' quarters.
Someone had made a joke about "the border prince."
It was not cruel.
It was casual.
That was worse.
She kept walking.
She did not react.
She had learned that reacting invited correction.
⸻
Work continued.
Days stacked neatly.
**Seventy-fifth.**
**Seventy-sixth.**
**Seventy-seventh.**
Small conflicts arose and dissolved.
Documents were reassigned.
Duties rotated.
People adapted.
The palace did not mourn.
It optimized.
⸻
On the seventy-eighth day, Lin Yue noticed something unsettling.
She was no longer bracing herself.
The conflicts no longer startled her.
The resolutions no longer angered her.
She understood them.
That understanding felt like betrayal.
⸻
That evening, she stood beneath the eaves as lanterns were lit.
The air was cool.
For a moment—just a moment—she imagined him standing beside her again.
Not speaking.
Not touching.
Just existing in the same frame.
The image faded without pain.
⸻
She returned to her room and sat at the table.
The calendar lay open.
She did not turn the page.
She did not need to.
History was doing exactly what it had always promised to do.
And Lin Yue—
She was still here.
Not changing outcomes.
Not disrupting flow.
Just witnessing the small, ordinary conflicts that proved the same truth over and over again:
The palace did not pause for anyone.
And that was why remembering mattered.