The Little Match Girl

I am the coldest night at the end of the year. The biting wind howls through the alley, wrapping the small figure huddled in the corner even tighter. The faded woolen shawl trembles in the wind, but it can never fend off the severe cold.
The girl's face is paler than the newly fallen snow, and the sunken cheeks bear the marks of hunger. Every faint breath condenses into a fleeting mist in the air, and her bluish-purple lips tremble slightly as she strikes a match.
In the end, the little girl succumbs to my chill. She gently strikes a match.
The moment the first flame lights up, a miracle happens. The dull gray eyes are suddenly filled with vitality, and the flickering flames cast tiny shimmers in the depths of her eyes. In the dancing light, I see the snowflakes melting into glistening teardrops on her eyelashes.
She stubbornly strikes one match after another. The second flame brings an illusory flush to her ashen cheeks, and the chapped corners of her mouth lift into a dazed arc. When the third match is lit, the accumulated tears finally break through her eyelashes and glisten in the firelight.
As the fifth match is about to go out, her expression gradually becomes serene. The leaping firelight gently caresses her crumpled little face, and the lines of suffering smooth out. When the phantom of her grandmother appears, a pure smile blooms on her lips.
The last flicker of light fades into the darkness, and the cold wind is still howling. But she no longer shivers. Her small body becomes still, and there is still a smile on her lips, as if she has finally reached the warm shore.
On this cold night, I witnessed a soul live forever in the extinguished flames. Her face was so peaceful when she left, more serene than all the hearths in the world.