The Sound of My Mother's Shoes

---

I was thirteen when my mother disappeared.

No note. No packed suitcase. No arguments.

Just gone.

Dad told me she left us, but I never believed that. Not really.

Because I still heard her.

Not in memories or dreams — no. I heard the click-clack of her shoes, the ones with the small heel and soft leather sole, walking across our kitchen floor.

Always at night. Always the same sound. Step. Step. Pause. Turn. Step again.

---

Dad said it was the house settling.

My brother wore his headphones and refused to talk about it.

But I knew the sound. I grew up with it.

I used to sit at the kitchen table after school, pretending to do homework, while she cooked and talked and paced behind me.

You don’t forget the sound of someone you love.

The kitchen changed after she left. It felt cold, like the light no longer knew where to land. The coffee mug with her lipstick mark stayed untouched in the cupboard. The apron hook remained bare. Her favorite pan was tucked away, even though no one cooked like her. It became a place where memory whispered.

---

The Letters

It started one night when I couldn’t sleep. I sat in the hallway with one of her old shoes in my lap. I whispered to it like I was five again.

Then I got up, found paper, and started writing letters.

“Are you cold?”

“Do you remember my science fair project?”

“I’m trying to smile, but it hurts.”

I folded the notes and slipped them into her shoes — the navy ones she wore to church, the red ones she saved for birthdays. I left them in the closet and didn’t tell a soul.

It felt sacred. Small. A secret between just us.

---

Then one morning, I opened the closet — and one shoe was empty.

Letter gone.

My breath caught. I checked again, carefully. Nothing.

I whispered, “Mom?”

The closet stayed quiet.

But that night, I heard the footsteps again.

---

Ghost or Memory?

Some people say grief is a ghost in your chest — heavy, invisible, and always sitting on your ribs. Others say it fades with time.

But sometimes grief grows legs.

Sometimes it walks across your kitchen floor when the house is still.

I tried to convince myself I was imagining it. That the missing letter was just misplaced. Maybe I forgot which shoe I used.

Until the second one disappeared.

And the third.

And then I started seeing little signs: shoelaces tied differently, a faint smell of lavender (her favorite lotion), a soft scuff on the hallway tile.

Something was reading them. Or someone.

---

The Photo Frame

It was a Thursday evening, and the sky outside burned golden. I went to dust the shelf in the hallway and noticed the picture frame — the one of her holding me when I was four — was crooked.

I lifted it and found a note behind it.

This one wasn’t mine.

“I never left you. I just ran out of time.”

I didn’t breathe for a full minute. The handwriting was slanted, a little rushed. Familiar.

---

Breaking

I showed it to Dad. He stared at it like it burned his eyes.

“She didn’t write this,” he said too quickly.

“How do you know?”

He opened his mouth, closed it. Then left the room.

Later that night, I found him in the garage, sitting on a stool, his hands covering his face. I didn’t interrupt. I just stood there until he looked up.

“She wanted to stay,” he finally said. “But she was sick. She didn't want you to see her fade.”

I sank to the floor, hugging my knees.

“She told me not to tell you,” he added. “Said you’d remember her stronger.”

---

The Dream

That night, I had a dream.

She stood in the kitchen, back turned.

Wearing her faded blue dress, the one with the flour stains on the sleeve. The scent of vanilla and home hung in the air.

She turned. Her mouth didn’t move, but I heard her say:

> “You’re stronger than you know. Keep writing.”

I woke with my face wet and heart pounding.

I went to the closet. Another letter was gone.

But this time, something was left behind.

A single white hair, curled at the end, caught in the heel of one of her shoes.

---

Now

I’m fifteen now. It’s been two years.

The footsteps are less frequent.

But some nights — always around 2 a.m. — I still hear them.

Step. Step. Turn. Step.

Sometimes I cry when I hear them. Sometimes I smile.

Because there’s a kind of comfort in knowing she might still be here — in echoes, in dreams, in the hush between breaths.

Last week, I found a letter in the mailbox. No stamp. No return address.

Inside, one line:

> “You were always my one.”

It’s taped inside my closet now. Right above the navy shoe.

---

I’ve stopped asking if she’s alive.

I’ve started believing that love doesn’t always stay in one form.

Sometimes it becomes footsteps.

Sometimes, echoes.

Sometimes, a whisper behind a picture frame.

Sometimes, a girl who refuses to forget.

And sometimes — if you listen close enough — it becomes your own voice.