The first thing Lin Yue tried to change was small.
Deliberately small.
She chose it because it did not involve princes, wars, or deaths—
only a name written in ink,
buried deep inside palace routine.
A low-ranking eunuch.
Third courtyard.
Scheduled punishment.
Nothing heroic.
Nothing dramatic.
Just enough
to test the world.
⸻
The calendar on her desk read:
TWENTY-SECOND.
Lin Yue stared at it while tying her hair.
She did not flip the page.
She did not touch it.
She simply watched.
The paper lay flat, obedient,
as if daring her to believe it could be wrong.
History never changes, she reminded herself.
But maybe details can bend.
The eunuch's name surfaced easily.
Zhao An.
Age forty-two.
Quiet.
Assigned to archive transport.
In the original timeline,
Zhao An was accused of negligence—
misplacing a document seal.
He was beaten,
dismissed,
and died three months later from illness.
A footnote.
Lin Yue stood.
If she could not change his fate,
she would try something simpler.
She would delay it.
⸻
The archives smelled of dust and damp paper.
Zhao An knelt by a low table,
stacking scrolls with careful hands.
His movements were slow,
practiced,
almost reverent.
"Senior Zhao," Lin Yue said softly.
He flinched.
"Yes, miss?" His voice was hoarse, cautious.
She placed the tray beside him.
"The seal for the Eastern Pavilion," she said quietly.
"It was recorded incorrectly.
If you submit it today,
it will be counted as missing."
Color drained from his face.
"That—are you sure?"
Lin Yue nodded.
"Submit it tomorrow.
After the inspection."
Zhao An stared at her,
as if she had handed him a miracle.
He bowed deeply.
"Thank you, miss Lin.
I will remember this kindness."
Lin Yue stepped away.
Her chest tightened.
She had changed something.
She was sure of it.
⸻
That night, Lin Yue did not sleep.
She sat upright,
the calendar open on her knees,
watching the inked date like a living thing.
The oil lamp burned low.
Her eyes ached.
She waited.
At the third watch,
the page shifted.
TWENTY-THIRD.
Lin Yue exhaled sharply.
No resistance.
No protest.
The calendar accepted the day.
Good, she thought.
It worked.
⸻
Morning came with rain.
Palace corridors echoed with hurried steps
and whispered urgency.
Lin Yue moved with the others,
head lowered.
By midday,
she heard the first rumor.
"A seal was missing."
"No—found in the wrong registry."
"The eunuch Zhao An altered records without permission."
Lin Yue stopped walking.
Her fingers tightened inside her sleeve.
This was not how it was supposed to happen.
She followed the voices to the outer courtyard.
Zhao An knelt there.
Forehead pressed to stone.
Back bent too sharply.
The supervisor stood above him,
expression carved from rule and habit.
"You submitted false information," the man said.
"Delay is negligence."
"But—" Zhao An's voice broke.
"I was told—"
"Silence."
The rod fell.
Once.
Twice.
Lin Yue did not move.
She did not shout.
She did not intervene.
She did nothing.
The punishment unfolded exactly as recorded.
Different reason.
Same outcome.
By the end,
Zhao An could not stand.
He was dragged away,
leaving rainwater mixed with blood
across the stone.
Lin Yue remained where she was.
Her ears rang.
⸻
That evening,
she sat alone in her quarters.
The calendar lay open.
TWENTY-THIRD.
Unchanged.
Her hands began to shake.
She had acted.
She had warned him.
She had changed the sequence.
And history had corrected itself.
Not gently.
Efficiently.
Lin Yue closed her eyes.
So this was how it worked.
History did not resist.
It adapted.
⸻
She paced the room.
If small kindness became guilt—
If delay became negligence—
If intervention reshaped suffering—
Then mercy was not protection.
It was acceleration.
Lin Yue stopped.
Her breathing steadied.
She looked down at the calendar.
"What do you want from me?" she whispered.
The calendar remained silent.
It always did.
⸻
Later that night,
she returned to the courtyard.
Rain tapped softly against roof tiles.
She did not know why she came.
Habit.
Guilt.
Momentum.
She stood beneath the covered corridor.
Footsteps approached.
Measured.
Unhurried.
Prince Shen Rui emerged from shadow.
He paused when he noticed her.
"You are often here," he said calmly.
Lin Yue lowered her head.
"I like the rain."
A lie.
A truth.
He studied her longer than necessary.
"There are many things people like," he said.
"Not all of them are safe."
"I know," she replied.
Silence settled between them.
Not awkward.
Not intimate.
Simply present.
Prince Shen Rui nodded once
and continued on.
Lin Yue remained still long after he passed.
Her heart beat unevenly.
She had failed today.
But the calendar had not punished her
for standing here.
For watching.
For remembering.
⸻
Back in her room,
she placed the calendar face down.
"If I interfere," she said quietly,
"you hurt people faster."
Her voice did not break.
"I won't do it again."
Outside,
the rain softened.
The palace breathed.
And time—
indifferent,
precise—
moved forward.