They are wandering shoes, soles worn through walking, tips taped in layers of silver. The dust that coats them is the dust of a hundred places, scattered far and wide.
She wore them for many years, when her stomach roared with hunger and her fingers stung with cold. Now they sit beside a half-dozen other pairs, shining and new.
Her husband tells her to throw them away, but she cannot bring herself to do it. It would be like throwing away a part of herself.
When she dies, she will be buried in those shoes, to wander once more.
Word Count: 99
This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge!