Have you ever had that feeling? One day, you suddenly realize that the roads you walk every day, the neighbors you see, the route to work—something seems to have quietly replaced them. Everything looks the same as yesterday, but you just know something's wrong. You can't put your finger on it, but something's definitely off.
Then you tell yourself you must have just had a bad night's sleep. You splash some water on your face and go on with your day.
What you don't know is that feeling is real.
My name is Chen Dong. I've been mending shoes at the entrance of an old alley in the south of the city for eight years.
This alley is called Liuyin Alley. It used to be a village on the edge of town, but when the city expanded, the village was absorbed into the urban area, and the alley remained. On both sides stand two-story buildings from the 80s, their white tiles yellowed with age, moss growing in the cracks. At the alley entrance, there's a gnarled locust tree—and that's where I set up my stall.
My stall is simple. An old manual shoe repair machine, a wooden box containing awls, waxed thread, shoe nails, leather, and glue, a few stools for customers, and a sunshade tied to the locust tree with rope. I set up at 8 a.m. every morning and pack up when the sun sets. My days are as regular as a pendulum.
The elderly from the nearby neighborhoods all know me. They call me "Little Chen, the Shoe Repairman." The jobs they bring are simple—replacing the heels on high heels, patching the toes of sneakers, attaching rubber soles to leather shoes. Ten or twenty yuan a pair. Enough to cover food and rent, with a little left over to save.
I learned my trade from my uncle. He repaired shoes in our hometown county for thirty years. After I failed the college entrance exam, I studied under him for two years. When he could no longer work due to a herniated disc, I came to the provincial capital and rooted myself at this alley entrance.
Eight years. I know every brick in this alley. I can tell you when each branch of the locust tree will sprout leaves, when Old Liu at the steamed bun shop lifts his steamer lid, when Aunt Zhao at the fruit stall starts her hawking—all with my eyes closed.
It's that kind of deep familiarity, a rhythm carved into your bones.
The story begins one evening in mid-September.
The weather was strange that day. It had been sunny all morning, but around four or five in the afternoon, the sky suddenly turned overcast. Lead-gray clouds pressed down low, as if rain was coming but wouldn't fall. The air was damp and sticky, clinging to your skin like a layer of sweat.
I was about to pack up early, putting my tools back into the wooden box, when a man stood in front of my stall.
I didn't hear his footsteps. He just appeared there, as if seeping out of the gray twilight.
I looked up at him.
He was around thirty, tall and thin, wearing a black long-sleeve shirt, black pants, and black cloth shoes. Head to toe black. But his face was deathly pale, like he hadn't seen the sun in years.
He was holding a pair of shoes.
"Fix these," he said. His voice was soft, as if coming from very far away.
I looked down at the shoes.
They were a pair of old-style black cloth shoes, the kind with hand-stitched thousand-layered soles—rare these days. The soles were stitched by hand, the needlework fine and neat, but they were worn almost completely through. The tread patterns were rubbed flat, and in some places the sole was so thin it was nearly transparent. Yet the uppers were stiff and new-looking, the black fabric shiny as if freshly polished.
Soles worn thin, uppers brand new.
My heart skipped a beat.
My uncle taught me the craft of shoe repair, but he also taught me other things. Some things he only told me after closing up for the day, when he'd had a few drinks, his voice low, and he'd warn me not to tell anyone else.
"Dongzi, remember this," he'd said that day, after half a catty of baijiu, his face red as Guan Yu's. "If someone brings you shoes with worn-out soles but new uppers, you tell them you can't fix them. No matter how much they offer, you don't touch them."
I asked why.
He didn't explain. Just said, "Just remember it."
I didn't think much of it then, chalking it up to old-fashioned superstition. But for some reason, I remembered those words for eight years. Never forgot them.
And no one had ever brought shoes like that to me.
Until today.
"I can't fix them," I said. My voice was calmer than I expected.
The man didn't move. Didn't say anything. He placed the shoes on my wooden box and turned to leave.
"Wait, your shoes—"
He was already gone around the corner. I took two steps to chase him, but the alley entrance was empty. Not a soul. In the space of two or three seconds, he'd been swallowed by the twilight.
"Little Chen."
Aunt Zhao from the fruit stall had already packed up and left. The voice came from Old Zhou, who had a fortune-telling stall on the other side. Old Zhou had been telling fortunes in this alley for at least twenty years. Everyone around here knew him.
"Uncle Zhou," I said, walking back. My mind was still reeling.
Old Zhou stared at the cloth shoes on my wooden box, his eyes unblinking. His expression made my back prickle.
I'd known Old Zhou for six years. I'd never seen him look like this before.
"You know what kind of shoes these are?" he asked.
I shook my head.
Old Zhou stood up from his stool, walked over to me, and bent down to examine the shoes closely. After a long moment, he straightened up, his face crumpled with wrinkles.
"Traveler's shoes," he said.
"What does that mean?"
Old Zhou glanced left and right. Liuyin Alley was empty in the twilight. The steamed bun shop and fruit stall were closed. Just the two of us. He lowered his voice. "That man isn't walking on roads of the living. His soles are worn thin from walking on the earth of the underworld."
I froze for a second, then let out a dry laugh.
"Uncle Zhou, you fortune-tellers love this spooky stuff—"
"I'm being serious," Old Zhou cut me off. His tone wasn't playful at all. "You did the right thing just now. When he says he can't fix them, he means it. If you'd fixed those shoes for him, he'd walk in yours."
"Walk in my shoes? What does that mean?"
"Borrow your path," Old Zhou said, his lips barely moving. "He can't walk on the living world's roads. If you fix his shoes, you're giving him the right to walk among the living. He'll take your place."
I was confused. Old Zhou spoke with such conviction, it didn't sound like he was making it up.
"What should I do with these shoes?" I asked.
"Leave them. Wait for him to come back for them."
"What if he doesn't?"
Old Zhou didn't answer. He folded up his stool, stuffed his coins and divination sticks into a canvas bag, moving much faster than usual, as if in a hurry.
"Getting dark. Pack up," he said.
For three days after that, no one came to claim the shoes.
That pair of black cloth shoes sat at the bottom of my wooden box, covered with an old towel. I didn't throw them away, didn't move them. I couldn't explain why. Maybe Old Zhou's words had planted a seed of fear in my heart, making me afraid to touch them. Or maybe I had a vague feeling that the man in black would come back.
On the fourth morning, I set up my stall as usual. Around nine o'clock, an electric bike pulled up. The rider was a portly man who delivered packages, surnamed Ma—everyone called him Fat Ma. He lived in the old neighborhood behind Liuyin Alley and often came to me for shoe repairs.
"Brother Chen!" Fat Ma plopped down on a stool, pulling a pair of sneakers from his bike. "Look at these—only three months old, and the sole's already coming loose."
I took them and examined the shoes. The left toe had a split, not serious. "Fifteen yuan. Come pick them up in the afternoon."
"Deal." Fat Ma pulled out his phone to scan the QR code, then suddenly remembered something. "Oh right, Brother Chen—what time did you close yesterday?"
"Yesterday?" I was already working on the sneakers, not looking up. "Closed around six. Why?"
Fat Ma paused for two seconds.
"Must have been a mistake," he said. "I passed by here around nine last night, and I saw someone sitting at your stall. I thought, 'Brother Chen's working late today.' But when I got closer, there was no one there."
My hands stopped.
"Nine o'clock?"
"Yeah, around half past nine," Fat Ma said. "But I was far away, could have been mistaken. That tree blocks the view, and the light wasn't good."
I didn't reply. I bent my head and continued sanding the sole, the sandpaper rubbing back and forth.
Fat Ma paid and rode off on his bike.
"See? Someone saw him," Old Zhou's voice drifted over. He'd had no customers today and had been listening to our conversation.
"Probably just a mistake."
"You weren't here last night, but someone sat on your stool," Old Zhou pointed to the stools beside my stall. "I remember you stacked them up when you closed, right? This morning when you set up, the top one was unfolded."
I looked at him.
"No need to look at me like that," Old Zhou said. "I just observe things carefully."
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I tossed and turned in my rented room, Old Zhou's words echoing in my head. Traveler's shoes, underworld earth, borrowing paths, taking your place. I understood each word individually, but strung together they made no sense.
I pulled out my phone and searched for "traveler." Nothing useful came up. I searched for "underworld earth"—nothing but horror novel excerpts.
Around two in the morning, I got up to use the bathroom. It was small, with a mirror above the sink. After washing my hands, I glanced up out of habit.
Behind me in the mirror stood a man in black.
I spun around.
Behind me was the bathroom door, open, leading into the pitch-black living room. Nothing.
I turned back to the mirror. Only my reflection stared back.
I didn't sleep the rest of the night. I sat on the bed with the light on until dawn, smoking half a pack of cigarettes. Over and over, I told myself it was an illusion. I was tired, stressed—my mind was playing tricks on me.
I almost convinced myself.
Until a week later.
That afternoon, Aunt Zhao got a shipment of cantaloupes at her fruit stall and cut me a piece to try. I was eating it when an old woman walked into the alley.
I knew this old woman. Her surname was Wang, and she lived in the old apartment building behind the alley. Her children were out of town; she lived alone. Last month, she'd brought me a pair of elderly walking shoes to replace the soles. Every time she passed by, she'd greet me, sometimes slipping me two oranges.
I called her Grandma Wang.
Grandma Wang didn't look right today. She leaned heavily on her cane, walking slowly, as if each step took all her strength. She stopped at my stall, looked at me, then at the locust tree behind me.
"Little Chen, is there a young man in black here?" she asked.
The cantaloupe in my mouth suddenly lost all flavor.
"He's been standing here all day," Grandma Wang said, as casually as if commenting on the weather. "Right under that locust tree, leaning against the trunk. I saw him yesterday when I came back from buying vegetables, too. He just stands there. Doesn't speak, doesn't move. Is he looking for you?"
I slowly turned my head toward the gnarled locust tree behind me.
The trunk was rough, bark peeling. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the ground.
No one stood beneath the tree.
"He was just there," Grandma Wang squinted, looking again. "Must have left."
After seeing Grandma Wang off, I sat back down on the stool. My legs felt weak.
Grandma Wang was an old resident, sharp as a tack, not senile, not blind. If she said she saw him, she saw him. And her description matched the man who'd come to me that evening—black clothes, leaning against the tree, silent and still. Exactly the same.
"You've got bad luck clinging to you," Old Zhou said, sitting down beside me before I noticed. He held an enamel teacup with "Labor is Glorious" printed on it. "The traveler's got his eye on you."
"Uncle Zhou, tell me the truth," I lowered my voice. "What's really going on here?"
Old Zhou took a sip of tea, placing the cup on his knee. He glanced up and down the alley, making sure no one else was around, before speaking.
"I learned about travelers from my master," he said. "Some people die before their time, or their souls linger between the living and the dead because they have unfinished business. After a while, their soles wear thin. The roads of the underworld are harsh—gravel and rocks everywhere. Every step grinds them down. When the soles wear through, they can't walk anymore."
"So he needs his shoes fixed?"
"Not fixed," Old Zhou corrected me. "He needs someone to take his place. When he brings you his shoes and you fix them, you're claiming his shoes. He puts them on and walks the living world's roads. And the place he left in the underworld—well, that becomes yours."
My throat tightened.
"But I didn't fix them."
"That's why you need to be even more careful," Old Zhou said. "You didn't fix them, so he can't leave. Can't leave, so he stays here. Day after day, the yin energy grows heavier. You'll end up dead too."
I glanced down at the bottom of my wooden box. The black cloth shoes were still under the towel. I could almost feel the cold emanating from them.
"Can I just throw them away?"
"Can't throw them away. He's marked you, not the shoes."
"Then what do I do?" My voice rose without me realizing it.
Old Zhou fell silent. A breeze blew through the alley, rustling the locust tree leaves.
"Don't panic," he said. "Travelers are trouble, but there's always a way. Let me think."
He thought for several more days.
Those days, I was in a daze. During the day, I repaired shoes absentmindedly, applying soles crookedly twice and getting scolded by customers. At night, back in my rented room, I avoided looking in mirrors, turning on every light when I went to the bathroom.
I slept with the lights on too. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the man in black's pale face, and those shoes—soles worn thin, almost transparent.
Grandma Wang came by again later, saying the young man in black was still standing under the locust tree. I was squatting on the ground gluing heel caps for a girl's high heels. I didn't look up. Just said I knew.
I was afraid to look at that tree anymore.
The turning point came on the ninth day.
Business was good that afternoon—four or five customers in a row. I stayed busy the whole time. When you're busy, you don't feel as afraid. The sun was bright too, shining brightly down the alley, revealing even the mouse holes in the walls.
The sun gave me some courage.
Just as I was about to close up for the evening, someone walked toward the alley entrance.
It was a woman, in her fifties, wearing a dark blue coat, her hair neatly coiled up, carrying a cloth bag on her arm. She walked very lightly, almost silently, but her bearing was steady, like a stone sunk deep in water.
She walked straight to my stall, didn't sit down, just stood there looking at me.
"You're Master Chen?" she asked.
"That's me. Who are you?"
"My surname is Fang," she said. "Just call me Aunt Fang. I need to ask you something."
"Go ahead."
Aunt Fang pulled something from her cloth bag and placed it on my wooden box.
It was an old photograph. Black and white, yellowed at the edges, probably twenty years old. In the photo stood a young man, wearing a white shirt from the 90s, smiling faintly at the camera.
I stared at that face for a few seconds.
The hair on my neck stood up.
It was him. The man in black. Even though he was smiling in the photo, younger than I'd seen him, I recognized him instantly. Those eyes, the shape of his brow, the line of his jaw—I couldn't be mistaken.
"You've seen him?" Aunt Fang watched my face closely.
I swallowed, my throat too dry to speak. I nodded.
Aunt Fang put the photo away, letting out a long sigh. A sigh that sounded like it had been held for years.
"I've been looking for him for three years," Aunt Fang said, her voice as calm as a frozen lake. "He's my son."
I said nothing, waiting for her to continue.
"My son's name is Zhou Mingsheng. If he were still alive, he'd be thirty-two this year," Aunt Fang sat down on the stool, placing the cloth bag on her knees, her hands folded on top. "Three years ago, he went hiking with friends in another province. The car overturned halfway, plunging into a ravine. When the rescue team found him, he was already gone."
Something hit my chest.
"The clothes he was wearing that day—a black shirt, black pants, black cloth shoes," Aunt Fang looked up at me, "Is that what he was wearing when you saw him?"
I nodded. My lips moved, but no sound came out.
Aunt Fang looked at me, her eyes holding something—hope, maybe, or entreaty.
"Master Chen, what did he come to ask you to do?"
"Fix his shoes," I finally found my voice. "He brought a pair of cloth shoes, wanted me to repair them. The soles were worn thin, the uppers new. I didn't fix them."
Aunt Fang's eyes suddenly brightened.
"You didn't?"
"No."
"Good," Aunt Fang let out a long breath, her whole body relaxing. "Good."
"Aunt Fang, what's really happening here? What do you know?"
Aunt Fang fell silent. Sparrows landed on the locust tree, chirping. The setting sun painted the alley orange, stretching everyone's shadows long.
"After he died, I burned him a lot of things," Aunt Fang said. "Paper money, clothes, a house, a car—everything I could burn. Except shoes. He loved wearing cloth shoes when he was alive, said they were comfortable, didn't tire his feet. He'd just bought a new pair, barely worn, kept at home."
"That black cloth pair?"
"Yes. After he passed, those shoes stayed in his room. On the third Qingming Festival, I was cleaning his things and found them still there. The uppers were new, but the soles—" she paused, "the soles were worn almost through."
I shivered.
"Where I come from, there's a saying: when someone passes, they have a long road to walk underground. They need enough shoes, otherwise they can't reach the end. His shoes wore out, so he had no shoes to walk in. That's why he came back." Aunt Fang's eyes reddened, but she didn't cry. "He came back looking for someone to fix his shoes, to walk for him. You didn't fix them, so he can't find a replacement."
"What should I do?" I asked.
Aunt Fang pulled a plastic bag from her cloth bag. Inside was a pair of shoes.
Exactly like the ones the man in black had brought. Black cloth shoes with thousand-layered soles, fine hand stitching. But these were old, with normal wear marks on both uppers and soles.
"This was his favorite pair when he was alive," Aunt Fang placed the shoes in my hands. "I need to ask you a favor, Master Chen."
"What is it?"
"Fix these shoes for me. When they're done, I'll burn them for him."
Holding those old cloth shoes, I suddenly understood.
The new pair was a yin shoe—left unburned after his death, worn thin walking the underworld. This old pair was a yang shoe—worn by him when he was alive, the thing he truly needed.
I examined the soles. The wear wasn't severe—just some fraying on the outer edge of the left foot, and one thin spot on the sole.
"I can fix these," I said.
Aunt Fang nodded, stood up, and bowed to me.
"Aunt Fang, you don't need to—"
"Please, Master Chen."
That night, I fixed the old cloth shoes.
I resewed the frayed edges, patched the thin spot on the sole with glue and fabric, and polished everything smooth. I didn't cut corners—every stitch was done carefully, as if mending my own shoes.
Old Zhou watched me work the whole time, saying nothing. Only when I finished did he speak.
"Who taught her this method?"
"I think she figured it out herself," I said.
Old Zhou snorted and shook his head. "She's not ordinary."
I looked up at him.
"Think about it—she found her way here, found you, brought that old pair of shoes. She knows everything," Old Zhou raised his enamel teacup and took a sip. "Either she consulted an expert, or she already knew."
The next morning, Aunt Fang came to pick up the shoes.
I handed her the repaired old cloth shoes. She turned them over, examining them again and again, her fingers tracing the stitched soles. Her eyes reddened again.
"Thank you, Master Chen," she said, putting the shoes into her cloth bag. "I'll burn them for him when I get home."
"Aunt Fang," I called after her. "I have something to ask."
"Go ahead."
"Will your son come back again?"
Aunt Fang looked into my eyes. Her irises were a deep brown, calm and still, like a very deep well.
"No," she said. "With his own shoes, he can walk to where he needs to go."
After Aunt Fang left, I took the black cloth shoes out from the bottom of my wooden box. That yin pair. The worn-down soles and shiny new uppers looked especially stark in the morning light.
I didn't know what to do with them. Couldn't throw them away, couldn't keep them.
"Give them to me," Old Zhou said, holding out his hand.
I hesitated, then handed them over.
Old Zhou pulled a box of matches from his canvas bag, struck one, and held it to the shoe's upper. The flame hesitated for a moment, then flared up. The black fabric curled, wrinkled, and melted in the fire. An indescribable smell filled the air—like burning old cloth, but something else too.
The shoes burned slowly, much slower than ordinary cloth shoes. When they finally turned to ash, nearly twenty minutes had passed.
Old Zhou swept the ashes into a plastic bag and tied it shut.
"I'll find a place to bury them," he said.
That night, I slept like a log for the first time in ages.
I slept straight through to dawn, no dreams. When I woke, sunlight streamed through the curtains, painting bright patches on the floor. I lay in bed listening to the sounds outside—the cries of the scrap collector downstairs, someone patting quilts on the balcony next door, distant car horns. Sounds I'd always found annoying, but now they felt reassuringly real.
Life seemed to return to normal.
For the next week, nothing strange happened. When Grandma Wang passed by, I casually asked, and she said she hadn't seen the young man in black lately. Fat Ma came for shoe repairs and didn't mention seeing anyone at my stall at night.
Old Zhou still set up his fortune-telling stall beside me every day. He had no shortage of customers—mostly middle-aged women asking about their children's futures or their husbands' wealth. He'd spout some nonsense, collect twenty or thirty yuan, and live a leisurely life.
I thought it was all over.
Then, on Tuesday of the second week, Old Zhou didn't show up.
At first, I didn't think much of it. Old Zhou came every day, but sometimes he'd take a day off—usually after drinking too much the night before, too hungover to get up.
By Wednesday, he still hadn't come.
I started to worry. After closing up, I detoured to Old Zhou's place. He rented a room on the second floor of the last building in Liuyin Alley, the door facing the staircase. A few cardboard boxes were stacked outside—his collection of old newspapers and bottles.
I knocked on the door.
No answer.
I knocked again, calling out, "Uncle Zhou!"
Inside, there was a rustling sound, like someone moving something. After a long moment, the door opened a crack.
Old Zhou's half-face appeared in the gap.
I barely recognized him. His face was gray and gaunt, eyes sunken, lips cracked and peeling. He looked like he'd shrunk. In just two days, he seemed ten years older.
"Uncle Zhou, what's wrong?" I asked.
"Nothing," his voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scraping metal. "Just a cold. Be better in a couple days."
"Do you want me to get you some medicine?"
"No," he said the word quickly, almost snapping. "You go. Don't stand at the door."
He closed the door. I heard the lock click, then footsteps dragging away inside.
I stood at the door for a while, feeling uneasy. Old Zhou was talkative even when sick. Today, he'd seemed in a hurry to get rid of me.
But I didn't think too much about it. People don't want company when they're ill—it made sense.
Back in my rented room, I took a shower and lay on the bed scrolling through my phone. Suddenly, I received a WeChat message.
It was from Old Zhou.
Old Zhou didn't use WeChat much—said his eyes were bad, small text hurt. He'd messaged me only a handful of times; the last was two months ago, forwarding an article about "Health Tips for Middle-Aged and Elderly."
This time, he sent a voice message.
I opened it.
The first few seconds were rustling noise, like the phone rubbing against fabric. Then came Old Zhou's voice, so soft I could barely hear it.
"Don't open the door."
Just three words.
I listened to it three times, making sure I hadn't misheard. Don't open the door.
I replied to Old Zhou: "Uncle Zhou, what do you mean?"
No response.
I sent another message: "Are you okay? Should I come over?"
Still no reply.
I called his voice message. It rang a few times and disconnected. I called again—his phone was off.
I didn't sleep well that night. Those three words stuck in my throat like a fishbone, impossible to swallow or spit out. Don't open the door. Which door? His door? Mine?
On Thursday morning, I decided to check on him again.
When I reached Old Zhou's building, I saw a few people standing downstairs, looking up and pointing. My heart sank. I hurried over.
It was Old Zhou's landlord and two community workers.
"What happened?" I asked.
The landlord was a plump woman in her fifties who lived on the third floor. She knew me. Her face looked like she'd seen a ghost, her lips trembling as she said, "Old Zhou—his room—you go see for yourself."
I went up to the second floor.
The door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open and stepped into Old Zhou's rented room.
It was dark inside, curtains drawn tight. The air smelled strongly of burnt paper money, mixed with something else—sweet and acrid, like iron.
Old Zhou wasn't in the room.
But what lay inside froze me in the doorway.
The living room floor was littered with things—yellow paper, cinnabar, copper coins, burnt candle stubs, a toppled incense burner, and Old Zhou's divination sticks, snapped in two and tossed in the corner.
Most striking of all was the thing on the floor.
A pair of shoes.
A pair of black cloth shoes, placed in the exact center of the living room, pointing toward the door.
I recognized those soles instantly—thousand-layered, fine stitching, worn almost transparent. Identical to the pair from before.
But it wasn't the pair Old Zhou had burned. That one was already ash.
I stepped closer slowly, crouching down to examine them.
The soles were covered in grayish-brown dust, fine powder like soil. I touched one—cold as ice, like it had been pulled from a freezer.
I suddenly remembered Old Zhou's words: "His soles are worn thin from walking on the earth of the underworld."
Just then, a phone vibrated on the table.