Disclaimer: White Collar belongs to Jeff Eastin, USA Network et al. This is for fun, no copyright infringement is intended.
Author's note and WARNING: This got rather dark and depressing. Read at your own risk
Book Of Hours
"Steve?"
The homeless man doesn't look up, doesn't react to the suit-clad figure sitting down beside him. Instead he stares blindly ahead. Maybe at something only he can see. Maybe at nothing at all. There is no telling what it is.
"Steve?"
Every now and then a grubby dark hand jerks and makes an involuntary move as if about to stroke something resting on his knee. He never finishes it.
"I just heard. I'm sorry, Steve. If there is anything I can do..."
The other dirty hand clutches a worn leather leash, an empty collar. The homeless never looks up, never hears the man in the suit sigh as he gets up.
"I'm sorry it didn't work, Steve."
Steve never notices the other man leaving. His hand only keeps reaching, every now and then, for the faithful gray head that will never be there again.
No matter how much we believe, no matter how much we want it. This world holds no miracles when it comes to old age.