Chapter 39: The Empty Shoes by the Door

"Some things we don't move because we need them to keep waiting."

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The shoes had not moved in over a year.

Black leather, creased at the toe, the left slightly more scuffed than the right.

They sat beside the door— not because anyone forgot them, but because everyone remembered them too well.

Krish passed them every day. Stepped over them. Brushed past them. Never touched them.

Even the dust that settled on them seemed hesitant, as if it knew these weren't just shoes, but something sacred.

Papa's shoes.

The last pair he wore. Still tied. Still waiting.

That morning, Krish stood longer than usual at the threshold. He had a letter in his pocket. One he wrote weeks ago, but never finished.

He looked down at the shoes. Then slowly sat beside them.

The leather was soft with age. The laces curled like they were still trying to form the last knot.

He reached out. Touched one.

It wasn't cold. Just still.

He remembered Papa sliding them on, his foot rocking gently into place. The small grunt of comfort. The slight sway of his shoulder as he stood.

He remembered the sound the shoes made on the gravel path. The way they tapped rhythmically on the steps.

He closed his eyes. Listened. Almost. Almost.

Ma came out of the kitchen. Saw him crouched there. Didn't speak. Just lowered herself beside him.

"I've thought of moving them," she whispered.

Krish nodded. "Me too."

"But I never could."

He looked at her. "Why?"

She smiled gently. "Because they look like they still expect him to return."

He felt a lump in his throat. "Maybe they're not waiting for him. Maybe they're waiting for us to be ready."

They sat together. No one moved the shoes. No one cleaned the dust.

Instead, they told stories.

Of the time Papa walked all the way to the market to find Krish's favorite sweets. Of the night it rained and he took them off to walk barefoot through the field. Of the morning he polished them slowly, humming a song no one ever knew the words to.

Every story made the shoes feel a little warmer. A little fuller.

Krish finally pulled out the letter from his pocket. Unfolded it.

He read it aloud:

"Dear Papa, Your shoes are still here. Untouched. Unmoved.

I don't know why we kept them. Maybe because letting them go felt like erasing the echo of your footsteps.

But today I realized: they don't carry your absence. They carry your path.

You walked in them. Laughed in them. Stood beside me in them.

They are not reminders of loss. They are proof that you were once here, stepping gently across this floor.

Love, Krish."

Ma touched his arm. "Let's clean them."

He hesitated. Then nodded.

Together, they brought water, a cloth, a little polish Papa had left behind.

They worked slowly. With reverence.

Wiping away the dust, not to forget, but to honor.

They didn't make the shoes new. They made them seen.

When they finished, they placed them back in the same spot. Exactly the same.

But something had shifted.

Not the shoes. The space around them.

Later that night, Krish sat by the door. The shoes beside him. The candle flickering near the windowsill.

He wrote in his notebook:

"Some things are not kept because they're useful. They're kept because they hold time. They remind us of steps once taken, of weight once carried, of love once walked into every room.

Papa's shoes didn't wait for his return. They waited for us to see that he had never really left."

He closed the book. Placed it gently inside one shoe.

And whispered, "Thank you for walking with me."

The next morning, he passed the shoes again. Smiled.

Because now, they didn't look empty.

They looked full.

Full of stories. Full of footsteps. Full of everything love had once carried.