The Kind Man with Red Shoes

Social media had never been her thing. She had profiles on all the major platforms — the ones you were practically bullied into signing up for — but she barely touched them. She didn’t understand the appeal of broadcasting your breakfast or your breakdown to strangers. Half the time she had to look up the meanings of new slang; acronyms were a language she’d never learned.

So when a name she didn’t recognise appeared in her DMs, she stared at it for a long moment, unsure whether to open it or ignore it.

It was Monday morning, and her workplace was dead. Rain hammered the pavement outside, turning the town centre into a ghost town. Only the hardened coffee and tea drinkers braved weather like this, and even they looked like they regretted it. The cold made the air feel metallic, biting at exposed skin.

So yes — dead.

She looked at the message again. Just one word. 'Hey!'

Was she really so bored that this appealed to her? The simple answer was yes.

She typed back, 'Hey back', hesitating over the full stop. She’d heard you weren’t supposed to use proper grammar online. No commas, no punctuation, and God forbid a semicolon. No ellipses either — apparently that made you look unhinged.

She hit send anyway.

Tuesday

Tuesday wasn’t as cold. The wind had died down, leaving behind a persistent drizzle that clung to the day like a damp coat. She walked to work at her usual unhurried pace. She always arrived early, so there was no need to rush.

Coffee first, then the day could begin.

She didn’t know that by the next morning, her world — and everyone else’s — would be turned inside out.

Three Weeks Earlier

Sara Dia had been missing for three weeks.

Her family, her friends, even strangers who’d seen her face on the news had begun to assume the worst. Her mother cried until her voice cracked. Her father raged at the police, demanding answers they didn’t have. Her best friend, Barbara — Barb to everyone except her mother — barely slept.

They’d grown up together, practically sisters. Their mothers had been school friends, and the girls had been inseparable since infancy. They used to say their friendship was unbreakable.

Then Sara vanished.

The Call

It was the ringtone that froze Barb’s blood. A silly tune they’d chosen together years ago — Sara’s ringtone for Barb, and Barb’s for Sara.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. The sound made the world turn ice‑cold.

She didn’t want to answer. What if it was the person who’d taken Sara? What if they were calling to mock her?

Her hands shook violently as she hit the green button.

“Barbs?”

Barb’s knees nearly gave out. Tears blurred her vision.

“Sara? Sara! Is that really you?”

“Of course it’s me. Who else would it be?”

Her voice was calm. Too calm. Wrong.

“Have you called your mum? Have you told the police? Call your dad and tell him you’re—”

She stopped. Something was off. Sara sounded like she’d just woken from a nap, not like someone who’d been missing for twenty‑one days.

“Barb,” Sara said, confused, “do you want to meet for coffee? I really need coffee. Why would I need to call Mum? And what’s Dad done now? Has he done something daft again? Do I need to be an alibi? Call the cops? Has Dad done something bad? Barb!”

Barb felt sick.

Suds ’n’ Stuff

They met at Suds ’n’ Stuff, the laundrette‑slash‑coffee‑shop where they’d spent half their teenage years.

Barb removed her glasses and stared. Hard. Sara recognised the look immediately.

“What?” Sara squinted back, trying to read her friend’s mind.

“You’re not hurt? Not… anything?” Barb asked.

Sara frowned. “I’m not sure what’s going on, Barb, but you’re worrying me. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

They sat at a small high table. Barb explained everything — the search parties, the news reports, the police statements, the vigils, the fear. The assumption that Sara was dead.

Sara listened silently, her face unreadable.

When Barb finished, Sara sat still for a long moment. Then she said, “Better call Mum.”

Reunions

Her mother’s scream nearly deafened her. Her father cried, shouted, swore, and promised he was on his way.

A police officer called next, informing her that a specialist would be visiting her later that day. The tone was stern, almost accusatory.

“Where will you be for the visit?” the officer asked.

Sara blinked. “At home?”

The Car Park

They walked to Maple Street car park. Sara unhooked her arm from Barb’s and scanned the rows.

“My car’s been nicked!”

Barb sighed. “Probably not. The police would’ve taken it. I thought we were meeting your dad here.”

“No. I told him not to bother. I said I’d drive up to Mum’s. He wasn’t happy. I can see why now. Where’s your motor?”

Barb pointed deeper into the car park.

Home

The hug Sara received from her mother was almost inhuman. Tears cascaded down her cheeks. She stepped back repeatedly, as if needing to confirm Sara was real.

“Where?” her mother whispered. Just one word. A word that carried a thousand questions.

“I was walking to work,” Sara said. It was all she remembered.

Everything after that was black.

The Specialist

The police trauma specialist arrived that afternoon. A woman with a calm face and sharp eyes.

“You must be wondering why I’m here, Sara.”

“No, not at all,” Sara lied.

“You’ve been missing for three weeks. We need to help you recover your memories. And we need to find the person who abducted you.”

Sara sat in her father’s old chair — the one he watched football in, the one that had absorbed years of his sighs and frustrations. It felt safe.

“All I remember,” she said slowly, “is walking to work. I was looking forward to coffee because the weather was so shi—” She stopped. “Sorry.”

“That’s fine. Anything unusual? Anyone following you? A stranger? Anything at all?”

Nothing.

Fragments

Later, memories began to surface. Not whole ones — just fragments, like shards of glass.

A morning. Still. Hazy. Bright but sunless.

A man staring at her window.

She checked her nightdress, her housecoat. She was clothed. But he stared as if he could see through the stone wall.

She felt drawn to him.

She threw on jeans and slippers and ran outside.

He was there. Smirking.

“Who are you? What do you want? Why were you looking at my window?” she demanded.

“At the trial,” he said calmly, “you said it was me who assaulted you. It wasn’t. I’m innocent. Only you know that. Only you, Sara, can make me a free man again.”

He turned to leave.

“What trial?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

Nightmares

The nights that followed were filled with disturbed sleep. Sara began to remember the man.

He was kind. Quiet. Philosophical. He spoke gently. He helped her when he could.

Other times, he was agitated. Angered. Cruel.

He made her do things. Wrong things.

He hurt her. Then comforted her. Then hurt her again.

He insisted he wasn’t the man who hurt her. That the other man was different.

Then who is he? she remembered asking. If he’s not you, then who? Why do you hurt me and then act kind? Let me go home!

He told her he would if he could. He said he was as much a prisoner as she was.

Then came the raid.

Tall men in black. Guns. Shouting. A laughing man dancing away from them, untouched. The kind man hitting the floor, insisting he’d kept her safe. Being beaten. Dragged away.

She woke gasping.

The kind man. The bad man. They were the same. They were different. They were both there.

The Shoes

Barb entered her room one morning.

“Your mum says you’ve been having nightmares. Should I book a doctor? You look shattered. I knocked, but you were mumbling about ‘the other man’. Who?”

Sara stared at her.

“It wasn’t the kind man,” she whispered. “It was the bad man. When he forced me onto my knees, I looked down. They were both there. The kind man had black shoes. The bad man had red shoes. The kind man is innocent.”

Barb didn’t know what to say. PTSD, she thought. Trauma. Confusion.

“We’ll get you help, Sara. Let’s talk to the specialist again.”

Elsewhere

It was summer in the northern hemisphere of Nimbus IV. A colony world. A playground for Norton Hughes.

Many of the women here were replicas of Earth women — genetic echoes, copied and sold to the highest bidder. Norton preferred the ones who looked like they had stories. The ones who looked like they’d fight back.

He bent his left knee, brushing dust from his red shoe. He stood straight and thought briefly of his twin brother — the quiet one, the philosophical one, the one who insisted he was innocent.

Then he saw her.

Karizel Bloom. A young woman walking to work. Her gait familiar. Her face familiar. Her fear familiar.

He smiled.

And stepped into her path.