Lin Yue noticed the problem because she was no longer trying to notice anything.
⸻
It began with a ledger.
A thin one.
Bound in dark cloth.
Unremarkable.
She was assigned to carry it from the western records room to the central archive—a task so routine it barely registered as work.
She did not read its contents.
She did not need to.
Her role was to move objects, not meanings.
Still, when she placed the ledger down and stepped back, her eyes caught something they should not have.
A list of names.
Not ranked.
Not emphasized.
Just… recorded.
Lin Yue paused.
She told herself it was curiosity.
She told herself it meant nothing.
Then she scanned the page again.
First Prince.
Second Prince.
Third Prince.
The list continued.
Her fingers tightened.
There was no fourth name.
⸻
At first, she assumed it was incomplete.
Or outdated.
Records were like that—fragmented, inconsistent, selective.
She closed the ledger and left without comment.
But the unease followed her.
Like a thread she could not unsee.
⸻
The next day, she delivered incense to the ancestral hall.
As she replaced the sticks one by one, she glanced at the tablets.
Imperial ancestors.
Honored names.
Lineage preserved in stone and smoke.
She counted.
Once.
Twice.
Her breath slowed.
There was space where one should have been.
Not an empty slot.
No.
An absence that suggested nothing had ever been there.
Lin Yue bowed deeply, as expected.
But inside, something tightened.
⸻
She waited three days before confirming it.
Three days of ordinary tasks.
Three days of doing nothing.
Three days of letting the calendar move without interference.
On the thirty-third day, she was sent to assist in reorganizing a shelf of historical dispatches.
Old ones.
Yellowed.
Fragile.
She handled them carefully, placing them in chronological order.
Battle reports.
Provincial budgets.
Royal decrees.
She did not search.
She simply… noticed.
Mentions of princes appeared and disappeared without pattern.
Sometimes the Second Prince was referenced directly.
Sometimes only his title.
Sometimes the Third Prince's seal appeared in the margins.
And sometimes—
There was a gap.
A sentence that curved awkwardly around a missing subject.
A decree that addressed "Your Highness" without specifying which.
Lin Yue's hands began to tremble.
She steadied them.
*This is not an error,* she realized.
This is deliberate.
⸻
That night, she opened the calendar.
**Thirty-fourth.**
She stared at the date for a long time.
Then she whispered, "When does it start?"
The calendar did not answer.
It never did.
⸻
Prince Shen Rui continued to exist.
That was the most unsettling part.
He walked the palace corridors.
He attended court sessions.
He received minor assignments.
But he was not… *recorded*.
Lin Yue noticed how officials addressed him carefully—never by full title unless necessary. How documents referred to him obliquely.
"The prince in charge."
"The one overseeing the matter."
"His Highness."
Names mattered here.
And his was being erased while he was still alive.
⸻
She saw it most clearly in people's behavior.
When Prince Shen Rui entered a room, conversation did not stop.
It thinned.
Like fog burned away by light.
People acknowledged him politely.
Respectfully.
And then—
They moved on.
As if his presence did not anchor the space.
As if he were already… peripheral.
Lin Yue stood by a pillar one afternoon and watched this happen.
Prince Shen Rui spoke to an official.
They discussed troop movements.
Logistics.
Numbers.
The official bowed.
Agreed.
Left.
And did not write anything down.
Lin Yue's stomach twisted.
⸻
She did not approach him.
She did not warn him.
She had learned.
Intervention accelerated cruelty.
But silence—
Silence allowed observation.
⸻
On the thirty-sixth day, she was summoned unexpectedly.
Not by name.
Not by rank.
Just… indicated.
She entered a small side chamber near the archives.
Prince Shen Rui was there.
Alone.
No attendants.
No officials.
Just a table.
Two cups of tea.
"You noticed," he said.
Lin Yue froze.
"Your Highness?"
He gestured for her to sit.
She hesitated.
Then obeyed.
"You noticed something was wrong," he continued calmly. "I saw it in your eyes weeks ago."
Lin Yue lowered her gaze.
"I would not dare—"
"Lie?" he interrupted gently.
She stopped.
He poured tea into both cups.
Steam rose.
He did not touch his.
"Tell me," he said. "How many records did you check before you were sure?"
Her fingers curled slightly.
"…three."
He nodded.
"That's faster than most."
She looked up, startled.
"You knew?"
"I suspected," he said. "But suspicion is easy. Confirmation is… quieter."
Lin Yue swallowed.
"Why do you think this is happening?" he asked.
She considered her answer carefully.
Because the truth was dangerous.
Because the truth was irreversible.
"Because," she said slowly, "history has decided you are unnecessary."
The words hung between them.
Prince Shen Rui did not flinch.
"I see," he said.
No anger.
No denial.
Just acceptance.
That frightened her more than any outburst would have.
⸻
He leaned back slightly.
"Do you know what happens next?" he asked.
Lin Yue's throat tightened.
She nodded once.
"Yes."
"Do I disappear suddenly?" he continued. "Or slowly?"
"Slowly."
"How?"
"First from records," she said softly. "Then from memory. Then from consequence."
Prince Shen Rui closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them again, his expression was calm.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
"For not lying to me."
Lin Yue looked down at her hands.
This was not in the story.
Not like this.
Not with consent.
⸻
He stood.
"Will you leave?" he asked suddenly.
The question struck her harder than expected.
"No," she answered immediately.
Then—more carefully—"I mean… I have no reason to."
He studied her.
"You know staying will not change anything."
"Yes."
"You know it will hurt."
"Yes."
Silence.
Then he said, "Then stay."
It was not a command.
It was a request.
Lin Yue nodded.
"I will."
⸻
That night, she did not dream.
She sat by the window and watched the moon cross the sky.
The calendar lay unopened.
For the first time since arriving, she did not feel alone.
She felt… aligned.
Prince Shen Rui would be erased.
That was inevitable.
But now—
He would not vanish unnoticed.
⸻
On the thirty-seventh day, the palace continued as if nothing had happened.
Because to the palace—
Nothing had.
Lin Yue performed her duties.
She spoke little.
Listened much.
She remembered.
And in doing so, she crossed an invisible line.
From observer—
To witness.