Help Her (The Girl with June 30th) is a book about the girl.She was granted a miracle

Chapter 2

The girl’s name was An. A simple name for a child who was anything but.

Because of my "blessing"—that accursed moment of benevolence that earned me thirty lashes—An grew up with one foot in the mortal dust and the other stuck in the clouds. She saw things others didn't. She would stop in the middle of a busy market to converse with a drifting dandelion seed, or giggle at a stone lion guarding a temple gate as if it had just cracked a lewd joke. The neighbors whispered that she was touched in the head. We, the five hidden observers huddled around the Literatus’s pond, knew better. She wasn't mad; she was just… porous. The wall between her reality and my domain of illusions was as thin as wet paper.

"Look at her," the Scholar groaned one afternoon, rubbing his temples. "She’s climbing a tree again. She is sixteen! A marriageable age! She should be embroidering ducks on a handkerchief, not straddling a branch like a gibbon."

"Let her be," I said, peeling a grape. "The view is good."

The Scholar threw a brush at me.

Our strange little family of exiles had fallen into a rhythm. The Official from the God of Wealth’s manor ensured An’s father’s small teahouse never went bankrupt, though he was careful not to make them suspiciously rich—just comfortable enough that An never knew the gnawing pain of hunger. The Scholar, despite his constant complaints, had secretly influenced the local schoolmaster to allow An to listen in on lessons from the hallway. He beamed with pride whenever she quoted poetry, even if she used it to insult the butcher’s son.

But the real trouble began, as it always does, with the Matchmaker.

The Deity of Matchmaking was a restless soul. He took his job with the seriousness of a general at war. For months, he had been pacing around the pond, tangling and untangling balls of glowing red thread, muttering about "compatibility charts" and "destined encounters."

"I have found him," the Matchmaker announced one evening, slamming a scroll onto the table, startling the Literatus who was—as always—calmly reading.

"Found who?" I asked.

" The husband! The supreme, destined, absolute match for our little An!" The Matchmaker’s eyes shone with a terrifying light. "He is the third son of the provincial magistrate. Handsome. Wealthy. A bit dull, but sturdy. Perfect for grounding her… eccentricities."

We all leaned over the pond. The water rippled, showing the image of a young man. He was indeed handsome, in a generic, well-fed sort of way. He was currently writing a poem about a lotus flower.

"He has no soul," the Scholar critiqued immediately. "Look at his calligraphy. Weak strokes. No character."

"He’s rich," the Wealth Official countered, shrugging. "I approve."

"I don't like his face," I added. "He looks like the type who sleeps without dreaming. Boring."

"You are all impossible!" The Matchmaker shrieked. "This is Fate! I have tied the knot! Tomorrow, they will meet at the Lantern Festival. It is written!"

And so, we watched. The Lantern Festival arrived, painting the mortal world in hues of gold and crimson. An was there, dressed in a new robe the Wealth Official had subtly arranged for her to find. She looked radiant, though she was currently distracted by a lantern shaped like a fat rabbit.

The magistrate’s son approached. The red thread, invisible to mortals but glaringly bright to us, pulled them together. The Matchmaker held his breath. The Scholar leaned in. I took a sip of wine.

The boy bowed. "Miss, the moon is bright tonight, but not as bright as—"

"Do you hear that?" An interrupted, tilting her head.

The boy blinked. "Hear what?"

"The rabbit lantern," An whispered conspiratorially. "It says your belt is too tight and you’re having trouble breathing."

The boy turned purple. The encounter lasted exactly forty-five seconds before he excused himself and fled.

Back at the estate, silence reigned. Then, I burst out laughing. I laughed until tears streamed down my face. The Scholar hid a smirk behind his sleeve. The Matchmaker, however, looked devastated. He stared at his hands, at the red thread that had snapped cleanly in two.

"It’s not possible," he whispered. "The thread… it didn't just break. It was cut."

He looked up, his gaze sweeping over us. "A mortal cannot cut a red thread of destiny. Only a deity can."

The atmosphere in the room instantly froze. The laughter died in my throat. We looked at each other. The Wealth Official raised his hands in surrender. "Don't look at me. I only deal in gold."

"I didn't do it," the Scholar huffed. "I wanted to see if she’d recite the poem."

"And I," I said, narrowing my eyes, "can only influence dreams, not reality."

All eyes slowly turned to the corner of the room.

The Literatus was sitting there, pouring himself a fresh cup of tea. His movements were elegant, precise, and utterly unbothered by the heavy suspicion filling the air. He took a sip, sighed contentedly, and then noticed us staring.

"Is the tea to your liking?" he asked innocently.

The Matchmaker narrowed his eyes. He walked over to the Literatus, leaning down until their noses were inches apart.

"You," the Matchmaker hissed. "You’ve been very quiet during these matchmaking sessions."

"I am a quiet man," the Literatus replied.

"Why," the Matchmaker continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "does the cut on the red thread look exactly like an ink stain?"

The Literatus smiled. It was a beautiful smile. A gentle smile. The kind of smile a tiger gives before it bites your face off.

"Perhaps," he said softly, "the story simply didn't call for a magistrate's son."

It was then that I remembered. The Literatus never told us which domain he governed. We assumed he was a god of literature, or poetry, or history. But looking at the ink-stained tips of his finger.