The first sign was absence.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just… misplaced time.
⸻
On the one hundred and third day, Lin Yue did not arrive in the morning.
Prince Shen Rui noticed before the bell rang.
Not because he was waiting.
Because the room felt unfinished.
⸻
The annex was prepared.
Tea steeped.
Documents aligned.
Light filtered in at the correct angle.
Everything was correct—
Except the sequence.
⸻
He reviewed the first report twice.
Not because it was complex.
Because the silence was arranged incorrectly.
⸻
When a clerk entered to deliver a dispatch, Prince Shen Rui nodded without looking up.
The clerk hesitated.
"Is… Lady Lin coming later?" he asked carefully.
Prince Shen Rui paused.
"I don't know," he said.
The clerk bowed and left.
The room closed again.
⸻
Prince Shen Rui set the document aside.
He did not check the door.
That would imply expectation.
Instead, he waited for the next natural interruption.
None came.
⸻
By midday, the tea had gone cold.
He did not replace it.
This was not neglect.
It was observation.
⸻
Across the palace, Lin Yue stood in a corridor she rarely used.
She had arrived late on purpose.
Not avoiding.
Testing.
She watched servants pass, their routines intact.
No one noticed the change.
That unsettled her.
⸻
She turned back before reaching the annex.
Not because she didn't want to go—
But because she needed to confirm something first.
⸻
At midday, Prince Shen Rui left the annex.
This was unusual.
He crossed the courtyard slowly, not heading anywhere in particular.
He passed the outer hall, then stopped.
Lin Yue stood there.
Still.
Composed.
Late.
⸻
They saw each other at the same time.
Neither smiled.
Neither bowed.
They simply acknowledged the disruption.
"You didn't come," he said.
"I said I might be late."
"You didn't say you wouldn't come."
"I didn't."
A pause.
This silence was different.
Sharper.
⸻
"You turned back," he observed.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to see what happened if I didn't arrive on time."
"And?"
"And you left the annex," she replied.
His jaw tightened slightly.
"That wasn't intentional."
"I know."
That made it worse.
⸻
They stood there, exposed by open space.
Not protected by routine.
Not shielded by furniture or work.
Just two people occupying the wrong part of the day.
⸻
"You could have waited," she said.
"I did," he replied. "Until I didn't."
She nodded.
That was the answer.
⸻
They walked back together.
Not side by side.
Not separated.
Parallel.
The palace adjusted again.
⸻
In the annex, Prince Shen Rui did not sit immediately.
Neither did Lin Yue.
The chairs felt premature.
⸻
"This isn't what we planned," he said.
"No."
"You were supposed to become optional."
"Yes."
"And I was supposed to accept it."
"Yes."
Silence.
Neither of them had succeeded.
⸻
"You changed the room," Lin Yue said quietly.
"I prepared it."
"For me."
"Yes."
"That's attachment."
"I know."
The admission was calm.
That frightened her.
⸻
She exhaled slowly.
"This is how it starts," she said.
"With noticing."
"With missing," he corrected.
She did not argue.
⸻
They finally sat.
Not opposite.
Slightly angled.
Compromise had arrived without negotiation.
⸻
"I won't do this again," Lin Yue said.
"Arrive late?"
"Disappear."
He looked at her.
"And I won't follow," he said.
That was a lie.
They both knew it.
Neither corrected it.
⸻
In the afternoon, work resumed.
Less efficient.
More aware.
Every movement carried memory.
Every pause carried possibility.
⸻
At dusk, Lin Yue stood to leave.
Prince Shen Rui rose as well.
Too quickly.
He stopped himself.
Too late.
⸻
She noticed.
Of course she did.
"This," she said gently, "is why distance mattered."
"Yes," he replied. "And this is why it failed."
⸻
She nodded.
Failure, at least, was honest.
⸻
That night, Lin Yue opened the calendar.
The marked date had not moved.
But the days before it—
They felt thinner.
As if time had begun compressing around them.
⸻
She closed the book and leaned back.
Attachment, she understood now, was not love's arrival.
It was love's footprint.
And footprints—
Could not be erased without destroying the ground beneath them.
⸻
Across the palace, Prince Shen Rui lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
The day replayed not as scenes—
But as gaps.
The hour she was late.
The moment he left the annex.
The way the room had felt wrong.
⸻
This was how loss rehearsed itself.
Not by leaving—
But by proving that presence had become necessary.
And necessity,
Once discovered,
Could never be unseen.
The palace called the next day normal.
Lin Yue disagreed.
⸻
Nothing went wrong.
That was the problem.
⸻
On the one hundred and fourth day, Lin Yue arrived on time again.
Exactly on time.
The annex accepted her without protest.
Tea was prepared.
Documents were aligned.
Prince Shen Rui was seated.
The pattern reattached easily.
Too easily.
⸻
"You're punctual," he said.
"Yes."
No commentary followed.
No relief expressed.
Normal.
⸻
They worked through the morning without interruption.
Efficient.
Quiet.
Lin Yue noticed something unsettling—
She no longer felt the need to measure the room.
Her body already knew where to stand.
⸻
At midmorning, Prince Shen Rui reached for a document—and paused.
His hand hovered.
Lin Yue spoke without looking up.
"The red seal copy is beneath the ledger."
He took it.
Did not comment.
But his fingers lingered on the page longer than necessary.
⸻
"You didn't check," he said eventually.
"I didn't need to," she replied.
"That means you memorized it."
"Yes."
The word settled between them.
Unwanted.
⸻
She realized then what she had been doing.
Not waiting.
Not counting.
Recording.
⸻
The way he exhaled before disagreeing.
The subtle shift in his posture when tired.
The fraction of delay before he turned a page when something troubled him.
These details arrived without effort.
That frightened her more than the date ever had.
⸻
"You're quieter today," he observed.
"I'm listening."
"To what?"
"To what I'll lose," she said.
He did not ask her to clarify.
⸻
At noon, neither of them left immediately.
The bell rang.
Once.
Twice.
Still, they remained seated.
Prince Shen Rui broke the pause first.
"If I disappear," he said, voice even, "what will you remember first?"
Lin Yue's breath caught.
She did not answer immediately.
"That's not fair," she said.
"I know."
"But answer anyway."
She closed her eyes briefly.
"The way you pause before speaking," she said.
"As if you're checking whether the world deserves the next sentence."
Silence followed.
Not comforted.
Exposed.
⸻
"And you?" she asked quietly.
"What will you remember?"
He looked at her for a long moment.
"The sound of your footsteps," he said.
"Because when they're gone, the room feels wrong."
She swallowed.
That was attachment.
Fully formed.
⸻
In the afternoon, Lin Yue made a mistake.
A small one.
She poured tea for him without thinking.
The cup touched the table softly.
He looked at it.
She froze.
This had not been intentional.
⸻
"I'm sorry," she said.
"For what?"
"For forgetting the distance."
He shook his head slightly.
"It's too late for that."
⸻
They did not correct the mistake.
The tea remained.
Untouched.
Acknowledged.
⸻
That evening, when Lin Yue left, Prince Shen Rui did not follow.
That was progress.
But as the door closed, he found himself counting the seconds—
Not until her footsteps faded.
But until the room relearned how to be still.
⸻
In her quarters, Lin Yue opened the calendar.
The date remained unchanged.
Mockingly patient.
She stared at it longer than usual.
Not negotiating.
Not grieving.
Accepting a new truth.
⸻
Attachment had crossed a line.
It was no longer about love.
It was about memory.
And memory, once formed,
Would survive even when history refused to.
⸻
Lin Yue closed the calendar and sat in the dark.
She had not meant to memorize him.
But the body, unlike history,
Did not ask permission before remembering.