It was a freezing New Year’s Eve—so cold that the chill seemed to seep straight into one’s bones. Everyone walking down the streets had wrapped themselves tightly in their coats and buried their faces in their scarves. Footsteps quickened, and every breath turned into a puff of mist. Some people hurried home, running late; others were on their way to celebrations, eager to welcome the new year with their loved ones. Everyone had a warm place to return to on that bitter winter night.
Even the children didn’t seem to mind the cold. They ran around laughing, throwing snowballs at one another, swept up in the magic of the night.
But in one corner, unnoticed by all, sat a child. A tiny, frail girl. Her head was bare, her thin dress was torn to shreds, and her naked feet pressed against the freezing stones. She had curled herself up in a doorway, trying to make her small body even smaller as she shivered violently. Her little hands, purple from the cold, clutched her knees. In front of her lay a worn cardboard box filled with matchboxes—her only source of income.
She hadn’t sold a single match all day. If she could have earned even a little, she might have gone home and shared a warm bowl of soup with her mother. But now, returning empty-handed, she didn’t know how she would explain it. In the icy air, she called out softly, her voice trembling,
“Matches… matches for sale…”
Yet nobody heard her. Everyone was lost in their own concerns, too busy to notice the small girl on the ground.
Her feet were freezing—how she wished she still had her slippers! But only hours before, she had leapt out of the way of a passing carriage, and her slippers had flown off her feet. She had thought of running back to pick them up, but a mischievous boy grabbed them and ran off before she could reach them. Now her bare feet were numb with cold. Unable to walk any farther, she had taken shelter in the shadow of a doorway. The stone steps were just as cold as the air, but she had no other choice.
When the cold became unbearable, she opened one of the boxes and took out a single match. Her tiny hands were so numb that she could barely hold it. With trembling fingers, she struck it against the wall.
The match burst into flame.
It was such a small light—but it warmed her hands, and somehow her heart as well. Suddenly she was no longer sitting on a frigid doorstep; she was in a cozy room, right in front of a glowing fireplace. A thick wool cardigan warmed her back, and soft fur slippers covered her feet. The heat of the fire wrapped around her, warming her all the way through.
But then the match went out.
And the fireplace, the warmth, the room—all vanished.
She lit another match.
This time the stone wall seemed to melt away, revealing a grand dining room. A long table stood before her, covered with all kinds of delicious dishes. Silver candlesticks lit the feast, and in the center sat a magnificent roast goose, golden and crisp. The girl’s eyes widened; her mouth watered. She reached out to touch the go
But the match burned out.
The table disappeared, and she was once more in the dark street.
Her matches were running low, but she longed for warmth—longed for that dream world—so she struck another.
At once she found herself in the middle of a warm summer evening. The ground, heated by the sun, radiated comfort through her bare feet. She felt warmth spreading through her body.
Then a star shot across the sky.
Watching it, she whispered, “Another star has fallen. That means someone has died.”
Her grandmother had once told her that every shooting star meant a soul had passed away.
Hoping to see her grandmother again, she lit another match.
And there she was—her dear grandmother—coming toward her through the snow like an angel. She opened her arms, gathered the little girl close, and together they rose toward the sky.
The next morning, passersby found a small girl’s lifeless body in a doorway. Beside her lay a pile of burnt-out matches.
“Poor thing,” they murmured. “She must have tried to warm herself with them.”
But none of them knew what she had seen in those flickering flames—
Nor that she had found her way back to her grandmother at last.