After Lin Yue decided to stop trying,
life did not become easier.
It became quieter.
⸻
The palace did not reward stillness.
It tolerated it.
Lin Yue understood this within a week.
She learned it through the way assignments were given—
never explained,
never negotiated.
Through mistakes recorded without comment.
Through people who vanished
not with drama,
but with absence.
Morning after morning,
the bell rang.
Lin Yue rose.
She washed.
She dressed.
She folded her bedding with exact care.
The calendar remained on the table.
She did not look at it
until she had finished preparing herself.
TWENTY-SIXTH.
She acknowledged the number
without reaction.
She had learned
not to argue with it.
⸻
Her duties expanded slightly.
Not promotion.
Not punishment.
Just redistribution.
She was sent closer to the inner corridors—
not close enough to matter,
but close enough to observe.
Lin Yue accepted the change without comment.
Observation
was something she could do.
⸻
The inner corridors felt warmer.
Not in temperature,
but in sound.
Footsteps overlapped.
Voices overlapped.
Power overlapped.
Here,
secrets moved faster than people.
Lin Yue dusted shelves.
Replaced incense.
Delivered sealed documents she was not meant to read.
She learned where not to pause.
Where not to listen too closely.
Where not to exist for too long.
She also learned patterns.
Which officials passed before noon.
Which courtyards went silent before storms.
Which routes Prince Shen Rui favored
when he did not wish to be noticed.
She did not follow him.
She simply noticed.
⸻
The calendar turned.
TWENTY-SEVENTH.
Lin Yue stood by the window that morning
longer than necessary.
Not because she expected something to change—
But because she expected it not to.
And she was right.
⸻
Meals were predictable.
Rice.
Vegetables.
Occasionally meat,
when the palace wished to appear generous.
Lin Yue ate with the others.
She spoke little.
Silence, she learned,
was often mistaken for humility.
That suited her.
Across the courtyard,
two maids whispered urgently.
"…heard the Third Prince is being questioned again."
"They say the Emperor is displeased."
"With whom?"
"Does it matter?"
Lin Yue did not look over.
She did not need to.
⸻
On the afternoon of the twenty-eighth,
she was assigned to deliver documents
to the eastern study.
A minor task.
Also a test.
She knew what would happen there that day.
An argument.
A dismissal.
A decision
that would not be reversed.
She walked steadily.
She did not rush.
She did not delay.
Inside,
Prince Shen Rui spoke with an official.
The tone was restrained.
Controlled.
Lin Yue waited outside,
head bowed.
Fragments drifted through the door.
"…allocation of troops…"
"…no justification…"
"…Your Highness, this is not the time…"
Silence followed.
The official exited.
His expression was tight,
mouth drawn thin.
He did not look at her.
Lin Yue entered
and placed the tray down.
Prince Shen Rui looked tired.
Not physically.
Strategically.
"You may leave it there," he said.
She did.
As she turned to go,
he spoke again.
"You are Lin Yue."
Not a question.
"Yes, Your Highness."
He studied her.
"You have been reassigned several times this month."
Her pulse flickered.
"Yes."
"And yet," he continued,
"your record remains…
unremarkable."
Lin Yue lowered her head.
"This servant believes
that is fortunate."
A pause.
Then—
unexpectedly—
a faint smile.
Not warm.
Not open.
But real.
"Perhaps," he said,
"we share that belief."
She did not answer.
She did not need to.
⸻
That evening,
the sky remained clear and cold.
No rain.
Lin Yue stood in the courtyard,
watching lanterns sway.
She felt settled.
Not happy.
Not resigned.
Aligned.
She understood her role now.
She was not here to intervene.
She was here
to exist correctly.
⸻
The calendar turned.
TWENTY-NINTH.
She marked the day
by replacing incense
in the western shrine.
A senior attendant spoke sharply nearby.
"Do not repeat his name aloud.
It brings no benefit."
"What name?"
"…Prince Shen Rui."
Lin Yue's hands stilled.
The attendant glanced at her.
"You did not hear that."
Lin Yue bowed.
"I did not."
It was true.
She had heard it
long before today.
⸻
The palace began to close around him.
Not with walls.
With silence.
Certain corridors emptied.
Certain documents vanished.
Certain conversations ended mid-sentence.
Prince Shen Rui still walked the palace.
But he walked
between things.
Lin Yue watched.
She remembered.
⸻
On the thirtieth,
she served tea in the outer hall.
Low tables.
Polite murmurs.
There,
she saw him pause.
Not because of ceremony.
Not because of rank.
Because he had nowhere else to go.
He stood by the window,
hands folded behind his back.
For a moment,
he looked alone.
Lin Yue did not approach.
Did not offer tea.
She waited.
After a while,
he noticed her.
"You always wait," he said quietly.
She inclined her head.
"It is safer."
"For whom?"
She hesitated.
"For everyone."
He considered that.
"Does it work?"
She thought of Zhao An.
Of sealed records.
Of days that refused to bend.
"No," she said.
He nodded once.
Then asked,
"Then why do you do it?"
She met his gaze.
"If I don't," she said softly,
"things end sooner."
Something shifted in his eyes.
Not understanding.
Recognition.
He did not ask more.
"Stay warm," he said.
And walked away.
⸻
That night,
Lin Yue sat by her small table.
The calendar lay open.
She traced the numbers.
They no longer frightened her.
They instructed her.
She closed it gently.
Tomorrow would come.
It always did.
And she would still be here.
Not to change the shape of days—
But to give them weight.