Lin Yue realized the calendar had changed—
because it stopped behaving like time.
⸻
The morning of the seventy-ninth day began ordinarily.
Too ordinarily.
The bell rang.
Servants moved.
Water was drawn.
Lanterns extinguished.
Lin Yue woke without alarm, without urgency. She folded her bedding, tied her hair, and stood by the table where the calendar lay.
She did not look at it.
She had learned not to begin the day with fear.
⸻
Her first task was document delivery to the inner administration hall.
She walked the corridor she had walked dozens of times before—counting steps without meaning to, recognizing floor cracks without looking.
Everything was familiar.
Everything was unchanged.
That should have comforted her.
It did not.
⸻
By midday, she felt it.
Not panic.
Not dread.
A tension that had no source.
Like holding a breath too long without realizing it.
She finished her tasks efficiently and returned to her quarters earlier than usual.
The room was quiet.
The calendar waited.
⸻
Lin Yue approached the table and finally looked down.
**Seventy-ninth.**
She frowned.
The ink was darker than usual.
Not thicker.
Not larger.
Just… heavier.
She reached out and turned the page.
The paper resisted.
Only slightly.
Enough.
Her fingers stilled.
That had never happened before.
She tried again, carefully.
The page did not move.
Lin Yue's pulse spiked.
She pressed harder.
Nothing.
The date remained.
**Seventy-ninth.**
Her breath came shallow.
This was new.
⸻
She released the calendar and stepped back.
Her hands were trembling.
"No," she whispered.
The calendar had always moved.
With her.
Without her.
It had never *stopped*.
⸻
She waited.
Minutes passed.
Then longer.
She sat on the edge of her bed, eyes fixed on the table.
The oil lamp flickered.
Outside, footsteps passed.
Time continued.
But the calendar—
Did not.
⸻
At dusk, she stood again and touched the page.
Still immobile.
Her throat tightened.
This was not delay.
This was not resistance.
This was designation.
⸻
Lin Yue understood then.
This day mattered.
⸻
She did not sleep that night.
She sat upright, the calendar open in her lap, watching the ink as if it might change if she stared hard enough.
It did not.
When dawn came, pale and indifferent, the date remained.
**Seventy-ninth.**
She felt the truth settle in her bones.
This was the first irreversible day.
⸻
The palace woke.
Lin Yue rose with it.
She washed.
She dressed.
She folded her bedding.
She did not close the calendar.
She left it open.
⸻
Work proceeded as usual.
That was the cruelty.
She delivered documents.
She poured tea.
She replaced incense.
No alarms rang.
No edicts were announced.
History did not mark this day as special.
Only she did.
⸻
At midday, she overheard a conversation near the records room.
"…border command finalized."
"…effective immediately."
"…no further review."
Her steps slowed.
She did not stop.
She already knew.
⸻
In the afternoon, she was sent to deliver tea to the annex again.
She had not been assigned there for days.
The coincidence felt deliberate.
Prince Shen Rui was inside.
Seated alone.
Reading.
He looked up when she entered.
Something in her face must have changed.
"You're pale," he said.
She placed the tray down carefully.
"The calendar stopped," she said quietly.
He did not ask what she meant.
"When?" he asked instead.
"Yesterday," she answered. "And today."
Silence.
He set the document aside.
"That means…"
"Yes."
He nodded once.
"Today matters."
"Yes."
⸻
They sat.
Not close.
Not far.
The air between them felt… dense.
"I thought I had more time," he said.
"So did I."
That admission surprised them both.
⸻
"Is this the end?" he asked.
Lin Yue shook her head.
"No. This is the beginning of the end."
He absorbed that.
"Does it move again?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "After today."
"And what happens when it does?"
"Everything accelerates."
He closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, there was no fear.
Only calculation.
⸻
They spoke then.
Not about feelings.
Not about regret.
About logistics.
Routes.
Supplies.
Names.
Things that could still be done within a narrowing window.
Lin Yue answered only what she knew.
She did not speculate.
Speculation was hope disguised as intelligence.
⸻
As dusk approached, the annex grew colder.
"You should leave," he said finally.
"Yes."
She stood.
Then hesitated.
"There is something else," she said.
He waited.
"When this day ends," she continued carefully, "you will begin to disappear faster. Not physically. Administratively."
He nodded.
"I expected that."
"No," she corrected gently. "Faster than expected."
That caught his attention.
"How much faster?"
She did not soften it.
"Enough that people will start forgetting you while speaking to you."
Silence followed.
Not shock.
Acceptance.
⸻
"Then stay until tonight," he said.
It was not a plea.
It was a request shaped by clarity.
Lin Yue considered the calendar—still open, still unmoving.
"Yes," she said.
"I will."
⸻
They did not speak much after that.
They drank tea that cooled untouched.
They watched lantern light stretch across the floor.
The world outside the annex continued its rhythms.
Unaware.
⸻
When the night bell rang, Lin Yue felt it before she saw it.
The calendar moved.
The page turned by itself.
Softly.
Decisively.
**Eightieth.**
She exhaled.
Not relief.
Confirmation.
⸻
She looked up.
Prince Shen Rui was watching her—not the calendar.
"It moved," he said.
"Yes."
"That means…"
"Yes."
He nodded once.
"Then this was the last day that waited."
Lin Yue closed the calendar and placed it beneath her sleeve.
"Yes," she agreed.
"It was."
⸻
She stood.
"I won't see you tomorrow," she said.
He did not ask why.
"Understood."
She bowed.
Not as a servant.
As a witness.
⸻
When she left the annex, the night air felt sharper.
Time had resumed.
But it no longer flowed evenly.
The countdown had begun.
Lin Yue walked steadily back to her quarters.
She did not look back.
She did not run.
The first irreversible day had passed.
And history—
History had started moving faster.