The old man still had a few streaks of ginger left in his near-white hair. It made him look just a little bit younger than he actually was. He'd been living around this part of town for years; sleeping in the park, or in boxes and newspaper when it got cold. Sometimes people bought him sandwiches, or gave him money. A little bit of help for the nice old man.
No one really knew his name or where he'd come from, but they all knew who he was. Most people had a bit of a soft spot for him, if not a bit of pity. Too many years ago to count, he'd shown up with nothing but a duffel bag, eyes searching every stranger's face with just a hit of desperation. If anyone, for whatever reason, seemed to catch his interest he'd grab them urgently by the arm, ask them in a raspy wheeze, "Are you Charlie? Have you seen Charlie? He's got hair like mine. Just like mine. Please, have you seen Charlie?"
No one's answer was ever yes.
Years went by like this. The old man always asking for Charlie. Never food or shelter, never help. Always Charlie.
The old man got older.
He didn't stop as many people as he once had. He still asked, of course, when he could. But his raspy voice was all but a coarse whisper now, and people had to bend close to hear him. These days he just carried a sign around his neck that simply read "Have you seen Charlie?" But he searched more out of habit now than anything else, and the old man never looked disappointed when people shook their heads 'no'. He walked the streets with plodding resignation.
Come midwinter he knew he wasn't going to see another spring. He was old. Homeless life was not kind to the old.
Tired and cold, he scuffled through the falling snow, holding out his sign and accepting people's spare change. On the other end of the block a picket sign bobbed over the heads of the pedestrians, moving slowly closer. Another homeless man with a sign.
People hurried back and forth past him, the crowd parting every now and again, and the old man caught a glimpse of startling red, of freckles spattering a homely face. His breath caught in his throat. The gap between them closed.
Expressionless brown eyes flicked to the old man's sign, and something sparked in them. "Charlie," the younger man gruffed, half-asking.
The old man nodded almost eagerly, licking his lips. For the first time in years, he dared to hope. The younger man had such a similar face, the right color hair. His eyes were brown, but they were shaped the same, and there were all those freckles. He didn't seem to be the right age, but maybe...Maybe.
"My son," the old man managed to wheeze in reply.
The man with the picket sign shifted where he stood, frowning in a way that seemed much too familiar, yet different enough to cause doubt. Slowly, after seeming to think very hard, he said, "My father's name was Charlie."
The two of them stood in the falling snow, considering each other.