Your Watch

You were seen running into the station where you must have boarded the first car you came across. The car was empty except for an old woman with two brown grocery bags and a man in a suit. The woman looked at you sideways from her seat. You took a seat at the other end of the car.
The train pulled into the station, the end of the line. You exited the station and walked up the steps to the street. The street, once filled with shoppers, was growing bare and dark and cold. You put your hands in the pockets of you jacket to hide from the cold. In your pocket you feel the watch. The metal on the watch is cold and it grows warm in your hands.
The metal reflected the lights of the shop where you first saw it. It had reminded you of the watch your father had and pawned away years ago. Your father left it to you when he died, but you were so cold and desperate, and hungry.
When you saw the watch in the window, hungry for the memories of your father, you went inside. You stood inside unnoticed. The owner stood to the side helping a customer. So you must have helped yourself. You must have run then, but you were seen. Someone saw you and you won’t get away. Because no matter how much you missed your father, no matter how hungry you were, no matter how much you wanted it, you’ll never get to keep the watch. You gave your watch away. You can never get it back.
You hear sirens. They see you.