He died in his sleep, the message says.

Just that.
No warning, no preamble, no frills.
Not even an exclamation mark.

He reads it again. Then again.
They were born three days apart. Practically twins in the cosmic crib.

Now one is dead. Quietly. In his sleep.
Like an obedient man following instructions.
And the other, him, is caught in a traffic snarl in the basement of a high-rise, fumbling for parking, sweat pooling under his armpits, as if his punctuality could somehow postpone fate.

He abandons his car to the valet and hurries to the lift. A queue snakes ahead.
Are all these people here to mourn? So soon? So many?
But no, they spill out on the fifth floor, giddy with laughter, lured by bass and bling. A party. Of course. The universe laughs in stereo.

He clenches his jaw.
He died in his sleep.

On the seventh floor, the air changes. The door is ajar.
A thick bouquet of incense and roses ambushes him at the threshold.
Shoes, sandals, slippers, an unruly crowd of leather and rubber, sprawl like drunks across the floor. And then he sees them.

Peach.

Soft.

Exquisite.

A pair of shoes so refined, so impossibly dainty, that they seem to hum their own aria. Silver laces looped in a ballerina bow. Embroidery so delicate, it might disintegrate at a sneeze.
These were not shoes. These were a declaration. A sigh made solid.
He crouches low, reverent, transfixed. Who, who had feet worthy of this grace?

He slides off his own Italian leather oxfords, and places them gently beside the peach confections, as if they might elope together. Then he enters the fog of mourning.

Inside, voices murmur like a malfunctioning radio.
He shares hugs, clutches at hands, condoles.
“He died peacefully,” someone whispers, like it’s a skill. “In his sleep.”

He nods, robotically, but his mind zigzags.
This could be him.
This could be his airless living room, his funeral snacks, his sad-faced acquaintances trying to remember something nice to say about him.

He inhales.
Think of the shoes. The shoes are real. The shoes are hope.

He scans the ladies in the room. Which one?

Not the bulldog-faced one in the salwar kameez.
Not the puffed-up one with swollen ankles and the haircut of a disgruntled coconut.
The sari lady? Perhaps. But her face screams “trigonometry and detention.”
No, she wouldn’t know a handmade insole if it bit her.

What about Miss Dyed-Hair-and-Drowsy-Eyes?
No. Too much hoof for that kind of footwear.
The one in satin? She looks like a gift shop. The peach would rebel.
The lady with the mole-fur combo on her chin? God, no. The shoes would weep.

He turns to the bleached flock on the left. Gulls in grief.
Why is everyone in white? Like ghosts….

A tanned woman with villain teeth nods solemnly at him. “Sad, no? He died in his sleep.”

His eyes dart from face to foot.
This is hopeless. These are not the feet of romance. These are not the feet of poetry.
These are the feet of bunions and calluses.

And then, one slender figure. Promising silhouette. A flutter of hope.
She turns.

A sheep.
A long, thin, leather-faced sheep with a tragic perm and the expression of someone with permanent rhinitis.

Despair swallows him whole.

He cannot breathe. The scent of rose and regret chokes his throat.
He must escape.

He retraces his steps. Past the muttering mourners. Past the incense fog. Past the indifferent deity framed in marigolds.
Back to the door.

Gone.

The peach shoes are gone.

In their place: one weary, scuffed silver chappal, tossed like a threat onto his polished shoes.

A betrayal in footwear form.

He slips on his Testonis, now defiled by proximity. The scent of wilted roses follows him like guilt.
The lift descends. From mourning to music.

The party on five is louder now.
It thumps and pulses and mocks.

He died in his sleep.

And left him… wide awake.

Inspiration for the story.

A friend passed away.  At the door, dozens of shoes lay in disarray. Some scuffed, faded, silent witnesses to lives paused in grief. And then, among that muted congregation, stood a pair of ballerinas, glowing softly, almost indecently alive. Their brightness felt like a trespass, a reminder of life intruding upon death. In that uneasy contrast, between what lingers and what is lost, this story found its first breath.