The Shoes

The shoes by the door weren’t how I’d left them.

Leaning against the counter, I sipped my coffee and thumbed at a word puzzle on my phone. Procrastination tastes better with caffeine.

Still, I had to get going. Meeting Mel for lunch was the highlight of my week, but work came first.

I slipped the phone into my pocket and turned toward the bedroom. My elbow clipped the mug - coffee sloshed across the counter.

“Perfect.”

I lunged for paper towels, mopping furiously, then wadded them into a ball and tossed it toward the trash can by the door. It missed, skidding to a stop inches away. Of course.

When I bent to grab it, I froze. Among the neat row of shoes waiting by the door sat a pair of hikers - mine - caked in mud.

I crouched closer. Thick, wet clods clung to the toes and heels, streaked with pine needles pressed into the muck.

That was impossible. I hadn’t gone hiking in months. I hadn’t even left the apartment since yesterday.

I reached out, pressing a fingertip into the toe. Damp. Cold. I lifted one in my hands and the smell hit me - sharp pine, sour dirt, and beneath it, something darker. Smoke.

A tiny wedge of charred wood was jammed in the tread.

The shoe grew heavier, the smell rushing over me, suffocating, like rain on old ashes. My breath caught. I dropped it back onto the mat.

Heart pounding, I bolted to my room and slammed the door. My eyes swept the corners, hunting shadows.

Those were my shoes, but did someone wear them?

Was that person here or-

Was that person…me?