The calendar did not warn her.
It never did.
⸻
Lin Yue opened it at dawn.
Not out of fear.
Not out of habit.
Out of necessity.
She had learned that some days demanded acknowledgment before they were allowed to begin.
⸻
The page turned smoothly.
No resistance.
No hesitation.
And then—
She stopped breathing.
⸻
The date was marked.
Not written in ink.
Not highlighted.
But different.
Heavier.
As if the paper itself had decided to remember.
⸻
She stared at it for a long time.
Long enough for the room to brighten.
Long enough for the palace to wake.
Long enough for her hands to go numb.
⸻
This was not a small correction.
Not a minor deviation.
This was one of the dates.
The kind history circled quietly, then erased.
⸻
Lin Yue closed the calendar.
Not gently.
Decisively.
⸻
She did not cry.
She did not panic.
She sat at the table and waited for her pulse to slow.
Counting breaths had always worked better than counting days.
⸻
*So it's closer than I thought,* she acknowledged.
Not earlier.
Not delayed.
Exactly where it was supposed to be.
⸻
She dressed without care for beauty.
Without care for impression.
Only for function.
Today required clarity.
⸻
When she arrived at the annex, Prince Shen Rui was already there.
Seated.
Reading.
He looked up the moment she entered.
"You're quiet," he observed.
"Yes."
"More than usual."
"Yes."
He set the document aside.
Something in her posture had shifted.
Not tension.
Alignment.
⸻
They sat across from each other.
Tea was poured.
Neither of them touched it.
⸻
"You saw it," he said.
Lin Yue did not ask how he knew.
"Yes."
"When?"
"This morning."
Silence followed.
Not startled.
Prepared.
⸻
Prince Shen Rui folded his hands.
"How long?"
She named the number.
Not the date.
The distance.
His expression did not change.
Only his breathing did.
⸻
"That soon," he said quietly.
"Yes."
Another pause.
"And nothing changed?"
"No."
He nodded.
"Of course it didn't."
⸻
Lin Yue watched him carefully.
This was the moment she had always feared.
Not the date itself—
But how he would carry it once named.
⸻
"You don't look surprised," she said.
"I've known for a long time," he replied.
"Known what?"
"That I don't last."
Her fingers tightened around the cup.
"But now," he continued, "I know when."
⸻
She swallowed.
"That's different."
"Yes."
⸻
Outside, a bell rang faintly.
The palace moved on.
⸻
Prince Shen Rui leaned back slightly.
"You're not going to leave," he said.
It was not a question.
"No."
"Even now."
"Especially now."
Another silence.
This one sharp at the edges.
⸻
"That's unwise," he said.
"I know."
"Unfair."
"I know."
"Cruel," he finished softly. "To yourself."
She met his gaze.
"Yes."
⸻
He looked away first.
"That kiss," he said suddenly, "did it accelerate anything?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"How do you know?"
"Because the calendar would have punished it."
"And it didn't."
"And it didn't."
⸻
Prince Shen Rui exhaled slowly.
"Then history allows it."
"No," Lin Yue corrected gently. "History ignores it."
There was a difference.
⸻
They sat together as the realization settled.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just heavy enough to change the gravity of the room.
⸻
Later, as they rose to leave, Prince Shen Rui paused.
"When the day comes," he said, not looking at her, "will you tell me?"
"Yes."
"And if I ask you not to?"
She hesitated.
Just once.
"No."
He nodded.
"I expected that."
⸻
Back in her quarters, Lin Yue opened the calendar again.
The date remained unchanged.
Immovable.
Certain.
⸻
She traced the edge of the page.
Not pleading.
Not bargaining.
Preparing.
⸻
She wrote one line beneath the others.
*This is the day history stops pretending.*
She closed the book.
⸻
Outside, sunlight filled the palace.
Inside, time had drawn a line.
And Lin Yue stood on the correct side of it—
Not to change what was coming,
But to make sure she was present when it arrived.
The palace reacted before the people did.
Lin Yue noticed it in the smallest ways.
⸻
The corridors felt narrower.
Not physically.
Logically.
As if every path now assumed an ending.
⸻
She walked slower that afternoon.
Not hesitating.
Measuring.
The calendar's date followed her like a shadow she could no longer outrun.
⸻
In the outer hall, two officials spoke in hushed tones.
"…the eastern command will be reassigned soon."
"Yes. His Highness is listed."
"Listed where?"
A pause.
Lin Yue did not slow her steps.
She did not turn her head.
Some knowledge arrived without permission.
⸻
When she reached the annex again—later than planned—Prince Shen Rui was not there.
That was new.
She waited.
Not sitting.
Not pacing.
Standing where she could see the door.
⸻
When he finally arrived, dusk had already crept into the room.
"You came back," he said.
"Yes."
"You didn't have to."
"I know."
Another truth neither of them tried to soften.
⸻
He set his outer robe aside.
His movements were precise.
Controlled.
Too controlled.
"They're accelerating preparations," he said.
"For what?"
"For things they won't explain."
She nodded.
"They never do."
⸻
They sat.
Closer than before.
Not touching.
The space between them had learned their shapes.
⸻
"You didn't ask what the date means," he said.
"I don't need to," Lin Yue replied.
"That's dangerous."
"No," she corrected softly. "That's acceptance."
He looked at her then—really looked.
"As if you've already lived through it."
"I have," she said. "Just not with you knowing."
⸻
The words settled heavily.
Prince Shen Rui lowered his gaze.
"So this is the part," he murmured, "where I start becoming a memory."
Lin Yue's breath tightened.
"Yes."
"And you," he continued, "stay."
"Yes."
Silence.
Not broken.
Held.
⸻
Outside, the first lanterns were lit.
Their glow seeped through the windows—warm, ordinary, indifferent.
Life continued beautifully.
That was the cruelty of it.
⸻
Prince Shen Rui stood.
"If I start acting as if I matter less," he said, "stop me."
She rose as well.
"I will."
"And if I ask you to leave?"
"I won't."
He nodded.
"That's fair."
⸻
As he reached the door, he paused.
"Lin Yue."
"Yes?"
"When history erases someone," he said carefully, "does it hurt less if fewer people remember?"
She did not answer immediately.
"No," she said finally. "It hurts more."
He smiled faintly.
"I thought so."
⸻
After he left, Lin Yue remained standing.
The annex felt larger.
Emptier.
As if it were already practicing.
⸻
Back in her quarters, she opened the calendar once more.
The marked date did not glow.
Did not pulse.
It simply existed.
Patient.
⸻
Lin Yue closed it and placed it face down.
Not in denial.
In defiance of obsession.
⸻
From this point forward, she understood one thing clearly:
Time was no longer approaching them evenly.
It was leaning.
Toward him.