The day Lin Yue decided to do nothing,
the world proved
it did not need her help
to keep moving.
⸻
Morning entered her room quietly.
Not through sound—
but through habit.
The palace bell rang once,
distant,
hollow,
ceremonial.
Footsteps passed the corridor.
Someone coughed.
Someone laughed too loudly,
too early.
Lin Yue opened her eyes.
For half a breath,
she forgot where she was.
Then the weight returned.
The bed was too firm.
The air carried incense and old wood.
Her hands were folded neatly on her stomach,
as if even sleep here followed rules.
She did not sit up.
She waited.
The calendar lay on the small table beside her bed.
Face up.
She turned her head.
TWENTY-FOURTH.
The date stared back at her,
clean,
undeniable.
Lin Yue did not touch it.
Yesterday had taught her enough.
⸻
She dressed slowly.
Every movement deliberate.
Restrained.
Tying her sash.
Straightening her sleeves.
Securing her hairpin.
In her previous life,
mornings were rushed—
alarms,
notifications,
unfinished coffee.
Here,
time did not chase her.
It claimed her.
By the time she stepped outside,
the courtyard was already awake.
Maids crossed paths with basins of water.
A senior attendant gave orders without raising her voice.
Somewhere deeper in the palace,
a door slammed—
then silence swallowed it.
Lin Yue joined the flow.
She did not hurry.
She did not linger.
She walked.
⸻
The palace was built to make people small.
Corridors longer than necessary.
Ceilings higher than comfort required.
Even the gardens were measured—
trees trimmed just enough
to remind you they were not wild.
Lin Yue moved through the outer court
into the servants' path.
Where she belonged.
No one looked at her twice.
She was unremarkable.
That, too,
was safety.
⸻
At midday distribution,
she took her place in line.
Rice.
Vegetables.
Thin broth.
The same as yesterday.
The same as tomorrow.
As she accepted her bowl,
a thought surfaced—
Zhao An would have been here.
The thought stopped her
for less than a breath.
Enough.
The attendant frowned.
"Move."
Lin Yue bowed her head
and stepped aside.
She sat beneath the eaves,
the bowl warming her palms.
She did not look for Zhao An's face.
She did not ask.
Absence answered clearly enough.
⸻
Around her,
conversations fractured and reformed.
"Another inspection."
"They say the Third Prince—"
"No, not confirmed."
"Still… something feels wrong."
Lin Yue listened.
Not out of curiosity,
but because listening was unavoidable.
This was how information moved here—
not by decree,
but by fear.
She ate slowly.
The food tasted exactly as it should.
Nothing had changed.
⸻
In the afternoon,
she was assigned to the west corridor.
Dusting.
Rearranging stools.
Replacing incense.
Tasks that did not demand thought.
Tasks that allowed it.
As she worked,
yesterday replayed itself.
Not the rod.
Not the blood.
But the moment she had believed
she succeeded.
That fragile,
dangerous hope.
She wiped her hands on her apron
and exhaled.
Do nothing, she reminded herself.
Do nothing,
and no one is hurt faster.
⸻
She was bent over a low cabinet
when she felt it.
The shift.
The palace announced important people
without sound.
Space widened.
Movement slowed.
Lin Yue straightened instinctively
and stepped back.
Footsteps approached.
Measured.
Unhurried.
She did not need to look.
Prince Shen Rui passed the corner.
Dark robes.
Simple embroidery.
Posture straight without stiffness.
He did not look favored by fate.
He looked tolerated by it.
Lin Yue lowered her gaze.
The prince did not stop.
Then—
He paused.
Her breath caught.
Not visibly.
Not dramatically.
Enough.
"Have we met before?" he asked.
Calm.
Unassuming.
Lin Yue bowed deeply.
"This servant would not dare."
He studied her.
She felt it
like pressure against her skin.
"You work in the west corridor often," he said.
Not a question.
"Yes, Your Highness."
Silence followed.
Not heavy.
Not threatening.
Observant.
"I see," he said.
He nodded once
and walked on.
Lin Yue remained bowed
until his footsteps faded.
Her pulse took too long to settle.
So he notices, she thought.
Earlier than expected.
⸻
That night,
Lin Yue dreamed of numbers.
Dates falling like leaves.
Pages turning without hands.
Ink bleeding through paper.
She woke before dawn,
breath shallow.
The calendar waited.
TWENTY-FIFTH.
She stared until her vision blurred.
Then she looked away.
⸻
Days passed.
Nothing happened.
And that,
she realized,
was the most terrifying thing of all.
⸻
The palace found its rhythm.
Morning bells.
Afternoon labor.
Evening silence.
Lin Yue moved within it
like a shadow learning its edges.
She did not intervene.
She did not warn.
She did not help.
And yet—
She saw everything.
Who limped after third watch.
Which maid cried by the laundry basin.
Which official avoided which corridor.
Patterns formed.
Not to change.
To endure.
⸻
On the twenty-seventh,
she delivered documents to the outer study.
A place servants did not linger.
She kept her head lowered as she entered.
Prince Shen Rui was there.
Seated by the window.
Reading.
Sunlight cut along his profile,
sharp,
temporary.
Lin Yue stopped at the threshold.
"You may place it there," he said.
She obeyed.
As she turned to leave—
"You never look surprised."
She froze.
"I beg Your Highness' pardon?"
"When things go wrong," he said calmly,
"you do not react."
Her chest tightened.
"This servant does not expect much."
He studied her.
Expectation.
A small word.
A dangerous one.
"I see," he said.
Then—
"What is your name?"
Her throat dried.
"Lin Yue, Your Highness."
He repeated it softly.
"Lin Yue."
Then nodded.
"You may go."
She left without looking back.
Her hands trembled
only after she reached the corridor.
⸻
That night,
she sat alone with the calendar.
She traced the edge of the page—
but did not turn it.
He will disappear.
The knowledge was heavy,
but steady.
Like a stone she had learned to carry.
And I will be here when it happens.
The thought did not break her.
It anchored her.
⸻
On the thirtieth,
rain returned.
Lin Yue stood beneath the eaves,
watching water stripe the stone.
Prince Shen Rui stopped beside her.
"You like the rain," he said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
She considered lying.
Chose not to.
"Because it falls the same way every time."
He looked at her.
"That sounds lonely."
She did not answer.
The rain continued.
Time moved.
And for the first time since arriving—
Lin Yue understood.
She was not here
to fight time.
She was here
to remain.