THE MAN WHO NEVER TAKE THE SAME PATH TWICE

The Man Who Never Took the Same Path Twice

By Lola Dam

It started as a quirk. A harmless habit.

When Thomas was a boy, he avoided stepping on the same cracks in the pavement. Later, as a teenager, he’d challenge himself to find new ways home from school, weaving through alleys, hopping fences, walking backwards down unfamiliar streets.

By thirty, it had become a rule.

Never take the same path twice.

It wasn’t superstition, exactly. He didn’t think anything bad would happen if he broke it. But he believed—quietly, stubbornly—that routine dulled the soul. The world was full of turns and detours, and he refused to let it become a loop.

He walked everywhere. To work. To the store. To the bookshop two blocks over, where no one ever asked if he needed help. But every journey had to be unique. If he turned left out of his building one day, he’d turn right the next.

He kept a notebook. A quiet log of every variation: “Market—via 8th Street, cut behind the church, passed the yellow house with wind chimes.” Or “Work—took longer, construction on 12th, detoured through playground.”

He never explained it to anyone. People already found him peculiar enough.

He liked the quietness of being unrecognisable in places he passed only once. There was a strange kind of freedom in it. The world stayed new.

But one day, walking through a part of the city he was sure he’d never been, he noticed a man across the street. Slight build. Hands in pockets.

Ordinary, really. Except—he was watching Thomas.

Not in a threatening way. Not even intently. Just… curiously.

Thomas looked away. Crossed the street. Turned. Took a narrow stairwell to a pedestrian bridge. When he glanced down, the man was gone.

It unsettled him, but not enough to break the rule.

The next day, on a completely different route to the library, he saw the man again. Different coat. Same face. Standing outside a bakery, not eating, not talking. Just standing. Watching.

Thomas stopped walking. The man met his eyes. Nodded once, like they knew each other.

Thomas turned sharply and walked the long way home.

That night, he added a note to the end of the day’s entry:

“Saw him again.”

He didn’t know why he wrote it like that—him. As if the man had always been part of the story.

Over the weeks, the sightings continued. Once on a bridge. Once beneath the overhang of a closed flower shop. Always quiet. Always observing.

He never followed Thomas exactly. More like… anticipated him.

One evening, Thomas stopped. Square in the middle of an unfamiliar street, lit by the pink-orange blur of sunset. The man stood a few feet away, half in shadow.

“Why me?” Thomas asked, his voice low but steady.

The man smiled gently. “Because you see the world. Most people forget to.”

Thomas stared. “Are you following me?”

“No,” the man said. “I’m walking with you. Just… on different paths.”

And then, he was gone.

Not dramatically—no puff of smoke or disappearing act. Just a blink, a turn, and empty space.

After that, Thomas tried to find him.

He began to map his routes with more intention. Every variation is tracked. Every landmark is noted. He began doubling back, taking more risks. If he found the pattern, maybe he’d understand.

But the man never appeared when Thomas was searching. Only when he wasn’t trying.

Then, one rainy morning, walking to no place in particular, Thomas turned a corner and saw a narrow lane he’d never noticed. Ivy is climbing up the red brick. A bicycle with a bent wheel leaning against a fence.

And there he was.

Sitting on the stoop. The man. Not watching. Just sitting. As if waiting.

This time, Thomas didn’t hesitate. He walked over and sat beside him.

The silence between them was easy.

“I still don’t understand,” Thomas said eventually.

“You don’t have to,” the man replied. “You’ve already chosen to live awake. That’s rare.”

Thomas looked at him then, really looked. The man’s face was ordinary—lines at the eyes, a crooked nose, and a mouth slightly too wide.

But something shimmered beneath the surface.

“Are you me?” Thomas asked,

The man shook his head. “No. But I remember being like you.”

He stood slowly. Rain began to fall, thin and silvery.

“Keep walking,” the man said. “Not just for newness. But for truth. For possibility.”

And then he was gone.

Thomas stayed on the stoop until the rain soaked his collar.

Then he stood.

Turned left.

And walked a new way home.