The first thing the world forgot was not Prince Shen Rui himself.
It forgot how to say his name.
⸻
On the eighty-first day, Lin Yue was sent to deliver tea to the inner administration hall.
She had done this countless times.
She knew the rhythm.
The order.
The distance to keep.
Nothing about the task felt different.
And yet—
She sensed it the moment she stepped inside.
A pause that was half a breath too long.
A hesitation that did not belong.
⸻
Two officials were speaking near the window.
"…the prince overseeing the border—"
"The one in charge of logistics?"
"No, no, the other one."
The sentence dissolved.
Not interrupted.
Not corrected.
Simply… abandoned.
Lin Yue kept walking.
Her hands were steady.
Her expression neutral.
But something cold settled behind her ribs.
⸻
She poured tea.
One cup.
Then another.
An official reached for his cup, then frowned.
"Who assigned this annex again?" he asked.
Another man replied, distracted, "It's been under… temporary oversight."
Temporary.
The word slid into place too easily.
⸻
Lin Yue finished her task and withdrew.
In the corridor, she leaned against the wall for just a second longer than protocol allowed.
She closed her eyes.
*It's starting,* she thought.
⸻
That afternoon, she was reassigned—again.
This time to document transfer between two offices that rarely interacted.
The reason was vague.
The order unsigned.
She accepted without question.
The palace had begun rerouting her the same way it rerouted information.
⸻
In the records room, she noticed the second change.
A clerk struggled with a register.
"Can you help me find the border prince's file?" he asked her absently.
Lin Yue froze internally.
"Which one?" she asked carefully.
The clerk blinked.
"…you know. The one who was here before."
"Before when?" she pressed.
He frowned, irritated now. "Last month. Or earlier. Doesn't matter."
It mattered.
Lin Yue shook her head gently. "I'm not sure."
The clerk clicked his tongue.
"Forget it. It's probably already archived."
Archived.
Or erased.
⸻
She carried the stack of documents back to the shelf.
Her fingers brushed the spines instinctively.
She found the gap immediately.
A place where something had been removed not roughly, but neatly.
As if it had never belonged there.
Lin Yue swallowed.
⸻
That evening, she checked the calendar.
**Eighty-first.**
It moved.
Of course it did.
Time had resumed its cruelty.
⸻
The next day, the palace misnamed him.
Not openly.
Casually.
"He approved the route—no, not him. The other one."
"Which other one?"
"…I don't remember."
Lin Yue stood nearby, holding incense.
She did not correct them.
She had promised herself she would not.
But the restraint burned.
⸻
She went to the annex in the late afternoon.
Prince Shen Rui was there.
Still present.
Still solid.
Still… intact.
But something had changed.
He noticed it too.
"They called me 'Your Excellency' today," he said quietly.
Lin Yue set the tea down.
"That's new."
"It is," he agreed. "They corrected themselves after. But they hesitated."
She nodded.
"That will happen more often."
He watched her.
"You've seen this before."
"Yes."
"How bad does it get?"
She hesitated.
Then answered honestly.
"They won't be cruel," she said. "They'll be confused."
He exhaled slowly.
"That's worse."
⸻
They sat in silence.
Not heavy.
Not awkward.
Shared vigilance.
⸻
When Lin Yue left, she noticed something else.
The guards at the gate hesitated before saluting.
Only for a heartbeat.
But it was there.
⸻
That night, she wrote again.
Not fragments.
Lists.
Words.
Titles.
Forms of address.
She wrote them carefully.
As if by recording them, she could slow their decay.
She knew she could not.
But she wrote anyway.
⸻
On the eighty-third day, someone asked her directly.
"Miss Lin," a junior attendant said, puzzled, "which prince used to work in the annex?"
Lin Yue met her eyes.
"This servant does not know," she said calmly.
The lie tasted bitter.
But effective.
The attendant nodded and moved on.
⸻
The palace forgot politely.
That was the most unsettling part.
It did not erase him violently.
It simply… adjusted.
⸻
Lin Yue felt the shift everywhere.
In how corridors felt longer.
In how meetings ended sooner.
In how questions no longer circled back.
Prince Shen Rui still existed.
But his *edges* were dissolving.
⸻
That night, Lin Yue did not sleep.
She lay awake, listening to the palace breathe.
She understood now.
This was not disappearance.
This was subtraction.
And subtraction, once begun, did not stop.
The second thing the world forgot was not his role.
It forgot its *need* for him.
⸻
On the eighty-fourth day, a meeting was held without Prince Shen Rui.
Not deliberately.
Accidentally.
Lin Yue realized it only when she saw the doors close.
She stood at the edge of the hall, documents in hand.
Inside, officials spoke freely.
Border allocations.
Supply routes.
Security concerns.
All matters he would have addressed before.
No one mentioned his absence.
⸻
The meeting ended efficiently.
Lin Yue's chest tightened.
Efficiency was the palace's highest virtue.
⸻
Later, she heard an official mutter, "We should inform—"
He stopped.
"…never mind."
⸻
That afternoon, she went to the annex again.
Prince Shen Rui was there, reading.
"You weren't called," she said softly.
"No."
"Did you expect to be?"
He looked up.
"I expected someone to remember."
She sat down slowly.
"They will," she said. "Just not consistently."
He closed the document.
"How long?"
She did not sugarcoat it.
"Until it becomes inconvenient."
He nodded once.
"Then we're close."
⸻
He began to test it.
Not dramatically.
Carefully.
He entered a corridor he had used for years.
A guard stopped him.
Politely.
"Your credentials?"
Prince Shen Rui presented them.
The guard checked.
Checked again.
Then frowned.
"I apologize, sir. I'll need confirmation."
Confirmation that never came.
Lin Yue watched from a distance.
Her hands curled into fists inside her sleeves.
Eventually, the guard stepped aside.
But the damage lingered.
⸻
That night, Prince Shen Rui spoke quietly.
"They forgot my seal today."
Lin Yue's breath caught.
"They asked me to borrow another."
She closed her eyes.
Borrowed authority.
The final stage before removal.
⸻
On the eighty-sixth day, Lin Yue overheard laughter again.
Someone joked about "that prince who keeps showing up."
Not malicious.
Amused.
She walked past them without slowing.
Her jaw ached from restraint.
⸻
She checked the calendar.
**Eighty-sixth.**
It moved.
Of course it did.
⸻
She returned to her quarters and read her notes.
Names.
Titles.
Dates.
They felt fragile now.
Like glass held too tightly.
⸻
On the eighty-seventh day, Prince Shen Rui said something she had been avoiding.
"When I disappear," he asked, "will you still hear my name?"
Lin Yue answered immediately.
"Yes."
"Even if no one else does?"
"Yes."
He nodded.
"That's enough."
⸻
The palace forgot another thing that day.
It forgot to assign him work.
Not out of malice.
Out of omission.
He waited.
Nothing came.
Lin Yue waited with him.
⸻
That evening, the annex lights were extinguished early.
No reason given.
No replacement offered.
Prince Shen Rui stood, gathering his few belongings.
"Tomorrow," he said, "they'll ask why I'm still here."
Lin Yue rose as well.
"And the day after," she added, "they'll stop asking."
Silence.
Then—
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For staying until this part."
She met his gaze.
"This is the part that matters."
⸻
When Lin Yue returned to her quarters that night, she placed the calendar beside her notes.
Time continued.
Memory thinned.
And somewhere between those two forces—
She stood alone, holding what the world was letting go of.