"It's cold here at night, you know."

I look down and to my right, across the dirty pavement and see a scraggly teenager sitting against the building there. We're hidden from the sun under some scaffolding, and in the dim light the boy seems to blend right in with the dull grey of the stone that he's leaning on.

"Excuse me?" I know the last thing I should be doing is talking to a homeless kid, but part of me is irrationally afraid that if someone doesn't notice him he'll disappear all the way into the grey of the city. Another casualty of the busy world of commerce and tourism.

"The wind kicks up a might fine bit and when you've got no where to hunker down but the alleys, it's vicious. Tears right through you… makes the soul cold." As if he feels it right there and then, he pulls his hood further over his head. I watch him sitting here, and wonder how to respond. I can feel the swarm of people around me on their lunch hour, not one of them seems to notice the boy or me.

I stand there staring stupidly at him for a while. It's not very often I am at a loss for words, I can't even remember the last time someone managed to shock me silent.

"I take it you've never known real cold, by the look there on your face, ma'am." He says after a long stretch of time when I continue to say absolutely nothing.

"Miss." I correct automatically, and then add a "sorry", as in "sorry for being so rude" rather lamely.

"It's all right. I ain't gonna be on God's green Earth much longer… so would you do something for little old me?" The way he talks he sounds like an eighty year old man from the South. Much too world weary for someone so young.

"Well, do you need medical assistance?" I feel like an idiot falling prey to some homeless schlub. I know better than to talk to them, let alone offer them help. As soon as I think this I feel like a heartless bitch and sort of cast my glance around for something to distract me enough to need to hurry away from the kid.

"No, Miss. You see," He taps the right side of his head with a dirty index finger, "I've had this growin' in my head for a right long while, long enough I can't even see out of my left eye anymore. I figure I've got precious little time left. The something is this: will you hold on to this? My dear Ma, bless her in Heaven, told me to keep good watch over this pocket watch I've got here. And I figure when I die someone is gonna come along and snatch it before my body's even cold yet. So you look nice enough, maybe you could look after it?" He pulls an ornate gold pocket watch out of his pocket and holds it up. For the first time he looks at me, a pleading look in his eyes. I can see his left eye is off somehow. I can tell he can't see out of it.

I reach forward and close my hand over the watch, shocked at how cold it feels against my palm. He gives a little nod of approval.

"You keep that safe now, you hear?" He tells me, and I feel like I'm being scolded by my grandfather.

"Of course." I say. I'm struck with the irony that some homeless kid is giving me something.

"You better hurry along. Don't want to be late to any important appointments." He jerks his head in the direction I was originally walking and I sort of falter in that direction before someone bumps into me with a "watch were you're walking, lady!" and I hurry along, suddenly afraid of the crush of people around me. I practically jog all the way back to my office, and when I burst through the door; my secretary jumps at the noise and looks at me like I've suddenly grown a second head.

"My god Morgan, you scared me!" She says, "You look like you've just seen a ghost."

I stand there dumbly for a second, still clutching the pocket watch as if it's going to slip away somehow.

"Sorry. I'm uh… not feeling too well." My conversation skills are getting weaker by the moment. I instead beat a hasty retreat into my office and make sure the door is safely shut before dropping into my chair. I don't know why I'm so shaken up – it was just a dying homeless kid.

I feel terrible for leaving him there. I should have helped him. Insisted I get him to a hospital. In addition to my conversational skills, my ability to be a caring person also seemed to be slipping away rather quickly.

I sit there for a long time, staring at my wall, wondering what to do. I have no idea if the boy will still be there if I check back.

Instead, I finally open the pocket watch. It opens with a little click, the cover swinging open. It's pretty old, the face is transparent and you can see the guts and gears of the watch, which seem to not be moving. Sure enough, as I watch the second hand for a moment, the watch is long stopped. The time reads 10:28.

I notice a small circle of paper cut to fit into the inside of the cover, which has yellowed with age.

In spindly, perfect cursive reads "For my darling boy. Love, your Ma. April the Eleventh, 1922."