Ryan had picked out a pair of Arabic leather sandals, size 10 — though oddly, they looked like they had been worn before. The stitching was thick and sun-bleached, the soles caked faintly with what looked like desert dust. Even more strange was the smell: an earthy, musky scent, almost like incense mixed with sweat — like they’d soaked up years of heat, movement, and life from someone else’s feet.
He tilted his head, examining them more closely. The insole was worn smooth, and though no brand was printed, a small tag stitched into the side was written in Arabic script he couldn’t read. “That’s weird,” he murmured. “Size 10. I’m a 9, but…”
Somehow, they called to him. Not with sound, but with familiarity. Like he’d worn them before — or maybe should have.
He slid them on.
The fit was perfect. Too perfect. The moment his feet settled inside, the room dimmed. A humming sound filled his ears, low and pulsing, like distant drums. He blinked and looked down.
His legs were changing.
The pale skin of his calves tanned rapidly, becoming darker, tougher. His lanky frame filled out slightly. Hair on his legs thickened. The mirror showed more: his face was subtly shifting. Cheekbones rising. Hair growing just a bit longer and curlier. His reflection now showed someone who looked Middle Eastern — someone he didn’t recognize… and yet felt utterly familiar with.
A sudden flood of memory slammed into him — the sound of the call to prayer echoing from a minaret, the taste of spiced lamb on his tongue, the burning sand beneath his sandals as he ran through a dusty street. A language on his lips he hadn’t spoken in this life.
Ryan — or was that still his name? — No Rahim stumbled back, heart racing, the change room suddenly too small, too bright.
And then he saw it: etched faintly on the mirror was a phrase in Arabic and English:
“Wear their shoes. Walk their life.”