Lin Yue did not decide to memorize Prince Shen Rui.
It happened the way breathing did.
Automatically.
Without permission.
⸻
On the one hundred and fifth day, the palace woke beneath a pale sky.
Not overcast.
Not clear.
Undecided.
Lin Yue noticed it because he paused at the window longer than usual.
Three breaths longer.
She counted without meaning to.
⸻
"You're watching the clouds," she said.
"Yes."
"They're low today."
"They'll clear by noon."
He was right.
She stored that.
⸻
They worked through the morning with the practiced ease of people who no longer needed to negotiate space.
Lin Yue noticed the way he held his brush—firm, but not tight.
How his wrist relaxed at the end of each line.
How he stopped writing one character before the ink dried, as if already anticipating the next thought.
She did not look directly.
Peripheral memory was safer.
⸻
When a clerk entered to ask a question, Prince Shen Rui answered calmly.
His voice did not rise.
Did not sharpen.
But there was a subtle shift when he disagreed.
A fraction of a pause.
Then firmness.
Lin Yue noted it.
*He does not interrupt people. He ends them.*
⸻
Midmorning, a draft passed through the annex.
The window had been left open.
Prince Shen Rui reached to close it, then stopped.
"Do you mind?" he asked.
"No."
He left it open.
Another thing recorded.
*He checks, even when he doesn't have to.*
⸻
Lin Yue realized then that she had begun categorizing him not as a person—
But as a pattern.
Patterns were easier to keep.
Harder to lose.
⸻
At midday, they ate in silence.
Rice.
Steamed vegetables.
Warm soup.
Prince Shen Rui ate slower than usual.
Not distracted.
Thinking.
She noticed the way his gaze lingered on the bowl for a half-second longer before each bite.
"Something's wrong," she said.
"Yes."
"Will you tell me?"
"No."
She nodded.
*He doesn't lie. He withholds.*
⸻
After the meal, they returned to the annex.
Sunlight had shifted.
Dust motes floated lazily in the air.
Prince Shen Rui stood to adjust a document rack.
Lin Yue noticed the scar on his wrist.
Faint.
Old.
She had never asked about it.
She never would.
Instead, she memorized its shape.
⸻
"You're staring," he said gently.
"Yes."
"At what?"
"At how you stand when you're tired," she replied.
He blinked.
That was not an answer he expected.
"How do I stand?"
"Like you're refusing to lean on anything," she said.
He exhaled softly.
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is."
Silence followed.
Not awkward.
Acknowledging.
⸻
In the afternoon, rain threatened again.
Prince Shen Rui reached for the lamp earlier than usual.
Lin Yue noticed.
"You don't like the dark," she said.
"I don't like not seeing exits," he corrected.
She stored that too.
⸻
As the day wore on, Lin Yue became aware of something unsettling.
She could predict him.
When he would speak.
When he would stop.
When he would let something go.
This was no longer observation.
It was intimacy.
⸻
"You're quiet again," he said.
"I'm organizing," she replied.
"What?"
"Things I won't be allowed to keep."
His hand stilled.
Just once.
⸻
"Lin Yue," he said carefully, "you don't have to do this."
"I do," she replied.
"Why?"
"Because when history takes you," she said, voice steady,
"I don't want it to take everything."
⸻
The words settled between them.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
Prince Shen Rui looked away first.
"That's dangerous," he said.
"Yes."
"For you."
"Yes."
⸻
At dusk, the annex dimmed again.
Lanterns were lit.
The room glowed softly.
Prince Shen Rui gathered his documents.
Lin Yue stood.
Their timing matched perfectly.
Too perfectly.
⸻
At the door, he paused.
"You won't remember all of it," he said.
"I know."
"What will you remember first?"
She answered without thinking.
"The way you look before you realize you're being watched."
He turned.
"That's oddly specific."
"Yes."
"That means it matters."
"Yes."
⸻
That night, Lin Yue returned to her quarters with a strange calm.
She did not open the calendar.
She already knew the date.
Instead, she sat at the table and closed her eyes.
She replayed the day—
Not as events.
As textures.
Tone.
Pace.
Silence.
She committed them to memory like a ritual.
⸻
Across the palace, Prince Shen Rui lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
He realized something with quiet clarity:
Lin Yue was no longer preparing for his death.
She was preparing for his absence.
That frightened him more.
⸻
Memory, he understood, was harder to fight than fate.
And if she succeeded—
He would survive longer than history allowed.
Not in the world.
But in her.
Lin Yue did not write any of it down.
That was intentional.
⸻
If something was written, it could be reread.
If it could be reread, it could be relied upon.
And reliance—
Was dangerous.
⸻
Instead, she practiced recall.
She closed her eyes and reconstructed the day from the inside out.
The sound of his footsteps—measured, never hurried.
The brief pause before he answered a question he already knew the answer to.
The way his shoulders lowered a fraction when the room emptied.
None of it belonged to history.
That was the point.
⸻
Later that night, she washed her hands longer than usual.
Not out of habit.
Out of grounding.
Warm water.
Steady pressure.
She needed to remind herself where her body ended and memory began.
⸻
Across the palace, Prince Shen Rui sat alone with a single lamp lit.
He had not intended to think of her.
That was the first lie.
⸻
He replayed the day—not the conversations, but the moments between them.
The silence after she spoke.
The way she noticed things he had stopped noticing.
The unsettling realization that she was learning him faster than he could guard himself.
⸻
This was not devotion.
This was archiving.
And archives survived fires.
⸻
The next morning, Lin Yue woke with a strange certainty.
She could picture him before opening her eyes.
Not idealized.
Not softened.
Exact.
She sat up abruptly.
This was new.
⸻
She reached for the calendar—and stopped.
Not because she feared it.
Because for a moment, she did not need it.
Memory had already oriented her in time.
⸻
That frightened her more than the marked date ever had.
⸻
At dawn, Prince Shen Rui stood at the window again.
Three breaths.
Exactly three.
Lin Yue arrived just as he turned.
Their eyes met.
No greeting.
No surprise.
Recognition had replaced anticipation.
⸻
"You remember," he said quietly.
"Yes."
"What?"
"Too much."
He nodded.
"So do I."
That was the most dangerous admission they had made so far.
⸻
They did not speak of it again that day.
They worked.
They moved.
They existed inside the routine they had already compromised.
But something had shifted—
Not closer.
Deeper.
⸻
Lin Yue understood then:
Memory was no longer preparation.
It was possession.
And possession—
Unlike love—
Did not ask permission from time.