Silently Seeking Soles

Yesterday, I wrapped up a short story that has been simmering for a mere 25 years. It all started with a bizarre true story about a taxidermist who fell in love with a badger he was preserving—yes, really. That story became Beatrice Never Leaves, a dark, haunting look at obsession and the things we just can’t let go of.

But, based on your lovely feedback, I decided to shift gears and try moving my pacing from decades to under 24 hours. While scrolling through recent headlines, I came across a gem of a story: a Greek man convicted for repeatedly sneaking into neighbors’ yards to smell their shoes. I thought to myself, Well, that’s got potential!

And thus, here’s a story about a completely different man. Any similarities to anyone you might know are, of course, entirely coincidental. ?

Enjoy, and do let me know what you think!

Silently Seeking Soles

Theo hadn’t meant to become a collector. It just… happened. He delivered mail for a living. The same streets, the same houses, the same polite nods from people who barely noticed him. It was a job of repetition. Predictable, unchanging. Some days, he felt more like part of the scenery than a person.

His route took him past doorsteps littered with shoes—muddy work boots, worn-out sneakers, polished dress shoes set out for cleaning. At first, they were nothing more than objects. Then, one evening, as he bent to retrieve a dropped letter, he caught a scent—faint, but distinct. Leather and earth, sweat and time. It was a story, a life contained in scent. And something inside him shifted.

He liked shoes. Not in the way most people did, with their neatly arranged collections of sneakers or polished oxfords. Theo didn’t care about brands or fashion. What fascinated him was the essence of a life pressed into the soles, the imprint of existence left behind.

Shoes carried stories. The places they’d been, the steps they’d taken. With the right pair, Theo was convinced he could slip into someone else’s life—if only for a moment.

His first real experiment had been an accident. A pair of running shoes left near the door of a house at the end of his route. He’d hesitated, then leaned in, inhaling deeply. A rush of something unfamiliar filled him—the sharp tang of exertion, damp pavement, determination. That night, he dreamed of running, pavement flashing beneath his feet, lungs burning with effort.

After that, it became a ritual.

Each evening, he would sit down with his notebook, documenting his findings like a sommelier cataloging wine. It read like an archivist’s journal, each entry beginning with a concise description before giving way to something more intimate:

• “Work boots—muddy, heavy, scent of motor oil. Feels like hard work, exhaustion.”
  Beneath it, in tiny script: Fingers caked with dirt, knuckles cracking as he lifts another load. This is a man who hasn’t known rest for years. A body that keeps moving, even when the spirit lags behind.
• “Office shoes—leather, faint smell of paper and dust. Feels like boredom, monotony.”
  Beneath it: The desk is cluttered, papers shuffled, moments ticking by. Her thoughts wander, a dull ache forming behind her eyes. It’s a life of repetition, days bleeding into each other.
• “House slippers—vanilla, detergent, old wood floors. Feels like comfort, familiarity.”
  Beneath it: She shuffles slowly, the warmth of home surrounding her. The smell of baking wafts through the air. Here, time slows. The world outside doesn’t matter. Everything she needs is here, in these worn halls.

It wasn’t just cataloging. It was a way of becoming. But slipping into other lives was dangerous. A single inhale, and he could almost be them. It had to stay controlled.

One sniff per pair. No repeats. No attachments. A borrowed moment, nothing more.

One night, on impulse, he’d tested his own shoes. Lifted his worn sneakers, inhaled deeply. The scent had been… nothing. Dull, stale. His life, distilled into a single word written in his journal:

“Disappointment.”

Theo had never sniffed his own shoes again.

At first, Theo didn’t notice the change. One evening, he paused in front of the Simmons’ house. Their usual scuffed sneakers weren’t by the door. He frowned. Maybe they’d been brought inside early. No big deal. But then, the next night, they were missing again. A coincidence.

Then, at the Clarks’ house, the rain boots were gone. Mrs. Wilson’s gardening clogs, too. One by one, the shoes disappeared. Porches that had once been dotted with footwear were now empty. A creeping unease settled in Theo’s chest.

He expected routine. A nod from the Clarks, a wave from Mrs. Simmons. But today, something was different. A hesitation in their greetings, a lingering glance he couldn’t place. Someone shut their door before he reached the mailbox. At the post office, a conversation stopped mid-sentence when he walked in.

The next day, the shoes were gone.

He started hearing whispers at the post office. Conversations quieted when he walked past. People who once gave polite nods now turned away. A cold awareness seeped into his bones. They knew.

But then, a lifeline—Mrs. Jackson’s house slippers, pink and faded, sitting right where they always had been. A jolt of relief ran through him. She hadn’t hidden them. Maybe not everyone was shutting him out.

Maybe this wasn’t over.

Days passed, and the silence around Theo thickened. The whispers had turned into avoidance. A customer at the post office gathered her mail quickly when he approached. At the diner, a group of men fell silent when he entered, their conversation halting mid-sentence. He wasn’t just ignored now—he was watched.

Mrs. Jackson, though, was different. One afternoon, she greeted him warmly as he handed her a package. No hesitation, no unease. Just the same gentle smile as always.

“Don’t pay them any mind, Theo,” she said. “People overreact to things they don’t understand.”

The words lingered in his mind long after he walked away. Did she know? Did she suspect? Or was she simply being kind?

And when he passed her house that evening, the slippers were still there. Waiting.

Theo stopped. His pulse thrummed in his ears. Had she forgotten them, or had she left them out on purpose?

The doubt gnawed at him. He had rules—one sniff per pair. No repeats. But this was different. Wasn’t it?

He stared at the slippers, his fingers twitching. One more time. Just one more time.

His feet moved before he made the decision. He stepped toward the porch, the worn fabric of the slippers soft beneath his fingertips. His breath hitched as he reached down, a battle waging inside him.

One sniff. Just one. And then he’d stop.

If he did this, there was no going back.

But they were still here. That had to mean something.

He inhaled.

Lavender. Old wood. A warmth that wrapped around him, pulling him under. For a second, he felt safe. Held.

Then, the porch light flicked on.

Theo froze. His body locked in place, lungs burning from the stolen breath. The door creaked open, and Mrs. Jackson stood in the threshold, her expression unreadable.

“I was wondering when you’d come back,” she said, voice quiet but firm. She stepped onto the porch, folding her arms. “Theo, what are you looking for?”

Theo’s mouth went dry. He glanced at the slippers, then at her, his mind grasping for an answer.

“I… I don’t know,” he admitted.

Mrs. Jackson studied him for a long moment, then nodded.

“Maybe you do.”

She turned and disappeared back into the house, leaving him standing there, the slippers at his feet, and the question hanging heavy in the air.

Theo bent down, carefully straightening the slippers. His fingers brushed against them, and for the first time, he noticed—

A fresh indentation in the fabric.

He stepped back onto the sidewalk. He walked home in silence, her words echoing in his mind.

Maybe it had always been time.

That night, for the first time in years, he let the pages remain blank.

© 2024 Robert M. Ford. All rights reserved.