Fandom: Person of Interest
Author Notes: Unbetaed purplish prose. (Maybe this should go under Warnings.)
Nothing is wasted when you live in the street. A bite of food is a valuable thing, a good place to sleep the definition of wealth. A miracle...
You don't talk about a miracle. You don't profit from it. You even try to forget it, lest it be somehow robbed, gone. Only what's inside you can never be taken away from you.
But when something happens — not the everyday troubles, or even death, but the unthinkable tragedies kings and beggars are both exposed to — the miracle is remembered, or whispered, or just, somehow, known. Then, if you paused for a second your deliberate not-seeing, you could see a man or a woman in city-colored layers of clothes, talking to the sky on a street corner somewhere. You would pass by quickly, fearful of their pain, awed by the certainty with which they speak, faces upturned halfway to the concrete and glass-blocked sky.
If you don't walk too fast, though, you might hear a payphone ringing next to them. You would see them pick it, heads frightfully, tenderly bent to listen to God.