The Secret of the Shoe Sole

In Tokyo during the rainy season, the air is like a wet towel that can't be wrung out, stickily wrapping everyone. I sit alone in a corner of the jazz bar "Dig," sipping whiskey on the rocks. Under the dim light, Charlie Parker's saxophone is mournful, as if it's trying to suck all the air out of your lungs.

My gaze falls on the Prada leather shoes on my feet. More precisely, the former Prada. A week ago, I sent these shoes, which I bought for 5500 yuan, to the dry cleaner I usually go to. When I picked them up today, I felt something was off. The uppers were still shiny and new, but the soles… seemed to have been switched.

It's a kind of indescribable strangeness, as if… the soul had been ripped out.

I bend down and examine the soles carefully. The texture of the rubber, the slight wear and tear, none of it matches my memory. I'm sure, this is not my shoe sole.

"Excuse me, would you like another drink?" The waitress's voice interrupts my thoughts. She's wearing a neatly ironed white shirt and a black skirt, like a quiet cat.

"No, thank you." I shake my head and point to the shoes. "Has anyone here... noticed anything strange about shoes lately?"

The waitress pauses, then puts on a professional smile. "You mean... like shoes talking?"

I don't laugh. I know the question sounds ridiculous, but in this city, anything can happen.

"I just feel like my shoe soles have been switched." I try to make my tone sound calm.

The waitress leans down, looks closely at my shoes, then looks up, a flicker of subtle panic in her eyes. "This... I'm not sure. But you can ask the old man who repairs shoes at the street corner. He might know something."

I pay the bill and leave the bar. The rain is still falling, weaving a fine, gray net. A dim light shines on the street corner, where a stooped figure sits on a small stool, with a pile of shoe repair tools in front of him.

The old man looks up, his cloudy eyes gleaming faintly. "Young man, what can I do for you?"

I take off my shoes and hand them to him. "Take a look, have these soles been replaced?"

The old man takes the shoes and runs his rough fingers over the soles, as if caressing a precious antique. "This sole... is not ordinary." He says slowly, "It's made from the sole of a dead person's shoe."

My heart sinks.

"Dead person?" I repeat, my voice trembling slightly.

"Yes." The old man nods. "In this city, there are some people who specialize in this kind of business. They collect shoes from funeral homes, hospitals... from the deceased, and then replace the soles onto new shoes."

"Why?" I don't understand.

"For... luck," the old man says slowly. "Some people believe that wearing the shoes of the deceased can inherit their luck, or... change their own fate."

I feel a chill. This is even more absurd than a Kafka novel.

"Then... where are my soles?" I ask.

The old man shakes his head. "I don't know. Maybe they've been put on the feet of some rich person, or... someone who desperately needs luck."

I am silent. Fate is like this pair of shoes with replaced soles, full of unpredictable variables. We think we are in control of our own lives, but in reality, we may just be manipulated by some mysterious force.

I put on the "strange" shoes and walk into the rain. The rain wets my hair and blurs my vision. I don't know where I'm going, or what I should do. I just feel that this world is much more complicated and absurd than I imagined.

Charlie Parker's saxophone seems to still echo in my ears, only this time, it sounds more desolate, more hopeless.