They are in a shoebox wrapped individually, in tissue paper, packed toe to ankle. The box is under her bed, right back against the wall, behind a tennis racket and a suitcase of old books. She has forgotten where she put them and almost, that she had them at all. She unfolds them one at a time; runs a critical finger over the scuffed heels and slightly bent toes, rubs the smooth strong arches with the palm of her hand; picks at the painted nails.
She tries them on.
They fit just fine.
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