The little match girl
The perspective of an old man in the shop
The bell above my shop door had remained silent all morning.
Today is Christmas Day. It was a slow day, and the customers who usually came for Christmas treats hadn't shown up yet. The snowflakes danced outside the shop window,I was going to sweep them away.
However, what came into my sight and attracted me was a little girl who sells matches,huddled near my shop door, with her blue hands clutching a bundle of matches. She looked so cold that she couldn't act as normal. Her golden hair stuck out from under a torn hat, like a sunbeam in the darkness.
For hours, she stayed there, shivering and silent. People walked by, some casting angry glances at her for blocking their path. When the cathedral bells tolled six, she struck a match. For an instant, flame gilded her face—cheeks hollow as winter apples, lips cracked yet curved upward. She smiled, then the flame went out, leaving her alone again. I don't know why she smiled; maybe it was the warmth of the match.
When the church bells rang midnight, she lit another match, then another, until the entire bundle flared in her palms. This time, her arms stretched outward as if embracing a phantom. The flames danced in her eyes. The girl's face lit up with joy. Her behavior was so strange that I couldn’t understand it.
By dawn, the snow had buried the matches’ charred remains. They found her still smiling, frost glazing her lashes like crystal. Some say she froze begging. But I think, in that final flicker of light, she wasn't a child anymore. She is just a poor soul who longs for warmth.