Rahim—no, Ryan?—staggered, gripping the edge of the mirror as the last fragments of his old self dissolved like desert wind over dunes. The sandals clung to his feet, warm and alive, as if they’d always been his. The scent of cardamom and sunbaked leather filled his nostrils.
Then, movement.
A man stood nearby—pale, hesitant, fingers brushing over another pair of sandals on the shelf. They were older, heavier, the leather cracked with age but still supple. The straps were wider, built for thicker, hairier feet. A faint smell of oud and salt sweat lingered around them.
Rahim knew. These were not just sandals.
Before the man could react, Rahim grabbed them and thrust them forward. “Put them on,” he urged, his voice deeper now, laced with an accent that hadn’t been there before.
The man frowned. “What? I was just—”
“You felt it,” Rahim insisted. “The pull. The memories that aren’t yours.” His own transformation had left him certain—this was meant to happen.
The man hesitated, then slowly took the sandals. As his fingers touched the worn leather, his breath hitched. A flicker of recognition crossed his face.
Rahim watched, pulse thundering, as the man slid them onto his feet.
The change was faster this time.
The man’s legs darkened, thickened. Coarse hair sprouted over his ankles, climbing up his calves. His posture shifted, shoulders squaring as if decades of labor settled into his bones. His jawline hardened beneath a spreading beard, silver-streaked and sun-bleached. His thobe—no, he hadn’t been wearing one before, had he?—flowed over his broadening frame, the fabric whispering against skin now weathered by a lifetime of sun.
The man—no, the old Arab now—blinked slowly, then turned to Rahim with a deep, knowing smile. “Ya waladi,” he rumbled, voice like grinding stones.
Rahim’s chest tightened. Not with fear, but with belonging.
The mirror’s etched words glowed faintly:
“Walk together.”