The great Boris Dyatlov (you might have heard of him) was born in Ameresh, on 16945, to Sergei and Misha Dyatlov, two honest cobblers who had never traveled farther than their work and their means allowed. If you haven't surmised yet, they were very poor.
Their shop was small, tucked between a baker and a carpenter's workshop on a street that was always busy with the footsteps of others. From dawn until dusk, people passed their door: merchants, laborers, guards, farmers, travelers, and the occasional adventurer whose boots seemed to Boris to have walked through half the world before arriving at his father's bench.
To Sergei, every pair of shoes told a story.
He could tell by the wear on a sole whether a man walked heavily or lightly, whether he favored one foot, whether he spent his days on stone roads or muddy fields. He could look at a worn heel and know whether its owner worked at a forge, hauled carts, rode horses, or simply spent too much time wandering taverns.
But more than anything, Sergei respected shoes for what they did.
"They carry us," he would say.
Boris had heard those words a thousand times.
"A man can have strong legs, Boris. He can have a strong back, strong arms, a strong heart. None of it matters much if his feet cannot carry him."
Sergei would turn a boot over in his hands, inspecting the stitching with the seriousness of a priest examining a sacred text or a goblet of wine.
"Remember this: your feet support you your whole life. And what supports your feet supports you. A good pair of shoes can carry a man farther than he ever thought he could go."
It was one of the few things Sergei spoke about with genuine passion.
To Misha, shoes were simply the family trade. To Sergei, they were something more.
He believed that a man's shoes could determine how far he could go. Boris never forgot that.
His childhood was otherwise simple. He swept the shop, fetched leather, carried tools, and learned the names of every awl, hammer, needle, and piece of thread before he was old enough to properly use them. His mother taught him to keep the books and count the coins. His father taught him to cut leather without wasting a scrap.
There was enough food on the table. There was a warm bed at night. There was always work to be done.
It was a good life.
But Boris had never been very good at being satisfied with a good life. How could he settle for "good" when he knew "excellent" waited somewhere out there?
He would sometimes sit outside the shop after closing, watching the road. Travelers fascinated him.
He wondered where they had come from. He wondered where they were going. He imagined the roads beyond Ameresh stretching farther than the eye could see, leading to strange towns, distant kingdoms, forgotten ruins, dark forests and mountains whose peaks disappeared into the clouds.
Sometimes he imagined himself returning home years later, wearing a battered cloak and a pair of boots covered in dust from roads no one in Ameresh had ever walked. He imagined having stories to tell. Real stories. Not stories about the price of leather or a customer who had torn his sole. Stories about places he had never seen and people he had never met.
His father noticed his wandering eyes.
"Thinking about the road again?"
Boris would smile.
"Maybe!"
Sergei would shake his head, though there was often a smile hiding beneath his beard.
"Then make sure you have good shoes when you finally walk it."
Boris promised that he would.
As the years passed, the desire only grew. At fourteen, he began lingering longer whenever travelers entered the shop. At fifteen, he began asking them questions. Where had they been? How far had they traveled? What was beyond the next town? Had they seen the sea? Had they fought monsters? Had they ever been afraid?
Some laughed at him. Others indulged him. A few simply told him that the world was not as exciting as a boy imagined. Boris never believed them. Perhaps they had simply forgotten what it was like to dream. And so, while his father spent his days repairing the shoes that carried other men along their journeys, Boris dreamed of beginning his own.
He thought often about Sergei's words: a man's shoes can determine how far he can go. Boris wondered if the same might be true of a man's life. Perhaps the difference between a man who stayed in one place and a man who crossed the world was nothing more than the courage to take the first step.
On the morning of his sixteenth birthday, Boris woke before sunrise. He lay in bed for a long while, staring at the ceiling. Then he rose and dressed quietly. He took a little food, a small amount of money he had managed to save, and the best pair of boots his father had ever made for him.
Before leaving, he stood in the doorway of the little shop. His father was asleep. His mother was asleep. Boris looked at them for a long time. He loved them, that's what made leaving so difficult. But outside, beyond the quiet streets of Ameresh, the road was waiting.
Boris tightened the laces of his boots, then he stepped onto the road. And he kept walking.
And walking...
And walking...
He did not know where he was going - how far his feet would take him.