The cold that night was bitter, the snow falling thick as goose feathers, and the sky darkened swiftly as dusk approached… It was the last night of the year.
Through the dim streets wandered a small girl, barefoot on the frozen pavement, her golden hair faintly aglow beneath the pale light.
She had once owned a pair of slippers—far too large for her tiny feet. They barely clung to her soles.
But while crossing the street, two horse-drawn carriages rushed past, thundering through the snow. Startled, the girl bolted out of the way, leaving the slippers behind.
One vanished without a trace. The other was snatched up by a boy who dashed off with it, laughing as he cried out mockingly, "I'll keep it for my future child! It'll make the perfect little cradle!"
* * *
The boy darted down an alley, his laughter still echoing off the walls. Yet the moment he turned the first corner, a heavy stick struck him across the head.
He collapsed instantly, unconscious—his hand still clutched tightly around the stolen slipper.
"A cradle? For your child? What a foolish brat."
The voice belonged to another boy, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, who held the stick in one hand and the matching slipper in the other.
He was the one who had knocked the first boy out. Without another glance, he tossed the stick aside and pried the slipper from the unconscious boy's fingers.
He looked down at what he now held—two identical, oversized slippers.
"Alright," he murmured quietly, "found them both. Time to search for the little match girl."
His name was Bell—a boy who appeared no older than eight or nine.
His brown eyes held a peculiar depth, one not of this world. For his soul had been born elsewhere, in another realm… and three months ago, he had arrived in this one.
Shivering, he exhaled with difficulty. "Ugh… this cold is unbearable."
His breath turned to frost in the air. Even his nose was beginning to go numb from the biting chill.
His clothes offered little warmth. He lived with his grandfather in a small wooden cabin, barely large enough for the two of them, where they huddled together against the winter.
His grandfather worked as a carpenter in the city, taking on whatever jobs he could—just enough to keep them fed. On days they didn't go hungry, Bell counted it a blessing.
He didn't go to school. His grandfather's modest earnings barely kept them afloat.
Yet Bell had never accepted that this was all life had to offer. When he'd first awoken in this world, he believed—perhaps hoped—that he had some special power, something that set him apart.
But he had none. No magic. No knowledge. Not even a trade.
The old carpenter refused to teach him the craft. Everyone else simply saw him as a dim-witted boy. He had yet to find a single child who wanted to be his friend.
He once tried to learn more about this world through books, so he went to the city library. But the gatekeeper at the entrance stopped him with a cold stare.
"This is a private library," the man said flatly. "Didn't you read the sign?"
Bell hesitated, then answered awkwardly, "Sir… what does the sign say?"
He couldn't read the symbols. They weren't from any eastern or western language he knew.
The man let out a mocking laugh.
"Can't even read the letters? Then you've no business here. I'll make you a deal—if one day you manage to read the words on that door, I'll let you in. How's that?"
He was confident the ragged little boy would never manage it. Reading was a privilege reserved for nobles, magicians, and the occasional wandering bard.
Bell replied quietly, "Deal."
The man smirked. "Perhaps you should try your luck at the tavern. I've heard some bards there are foolish enough to teach children to read… if they're in a good mood."
Without wasting another second, Bell turned and sprinted toward the tavern.
* * *
But things didn't go as he had hoped.
The storytellers in the tavern were too busy to notice the ragged, dirt-streaked boy who had slipped in quietly. To them, he was nothing more than a beggar—hardly worth a glance.
Still, Bell remained in the shadows, listening intently to the tales they spun night after night. Gradually, as the threads of their stories wove themselves into his thoughts, a faint understanding began to form…
One evening, he overheard one of them say, "In a distant land lies a kingdom surrounded by thorns. Legend speaks of a sleeping princess hidden within—a beauty unseen by any man. Many knights have tried to reach her, but every last one of them has failed."
Another added, "Far across the sea, on quiet, forgotten shores, mermaids sang in voices as sweet as dew. Their beauty was beyond description, their bodies cloaked in shells… though from the waist down, they bore the tails of fish."
Whispers drifted between tables of a great sorcerer who dwelled deep within the forest—no one had seen him, no one knew his name.
And somewhere far to the East, they claimed, the land glittered with gold, its soil shimmering with riches beyond imagining…
These stories struck a chord in Bell's mind—Sleeping Beauty. The Little Mermaid. They were the fairy tales he'd known as a child.
'Could it be? Had he truly fallen into a world of fairytales?'
'But then… who was the mysterious sorcerer?'
'Which story did he belong to?'
'And that golden land in the East—wasn't that just the illusion Marco Polo once painted of the Orient?'
'Was this truly a realm of fantasy and fable?'
Questions swirled through his thoughts with no clear answers… until yesterday.
At the corner of a narrow street, he had spotted a young girl selling matches. Her hair was golden and curly, and she carried a box of matches in the pocket of her worn apron.
'He had hesitated. Was she… the little match girl?'
When he returned home, his grandfather mentioned that tonight was the last night of the year.
He even gave Bell two coins and told him to buy whatever he liked to celebrate the new year's arrival.
On his way out, he saw her again.
The same girl. Same curly golden hair. Same oversized slippers on her feet. Same ragged apron. No hat.
This time, there was no doubt in his heart.
She was the little match girl.
And he remembered with chilling clarity—this girl was destined to die tonight, on New Year's Eve.
From that moment on, he never stopped following her footsteps…
* * *
"Matches! Matches! Would anyone like to buy some matches?"
The girl's voice trembled in the cold as she wandered alone beneath the falling snow, her fragile body shivering without even realizing it.
The streets were nearly empty. The few passersby barely glanced her way. No one needed her matches.
The scent of roast goose drifted from a nearby house, and hunger twisted in her stomach. She shrank against a wall, cold and starving, and reached into her apron to pull out a single match.
Fssht!
A small flicker of flame burst to life at the tip. She quickly cupped her tiny hands around it, trying to catch the warmth as it rose.
"Ahh… how warm it is…"
In her mind, she saw a great fireplace glowing before her. A soft heat wrapped around her limbs like a dream… a fleeting happiness that made her stretch her frozen feet unconsciously toward the imagined blaze.
But the match soon burned out. The vision faded. The warmth vanished.
She stared at the charred stick in her fingers.
And then—something strange.
The large slipper she had lost earlier… it had returned to her foot, shielding the pale, swollen skin from the biting cold.
Old and worn though it was, the slipper now held a gentle warmth, a warmth not unlike the flickering flame she had imagined.
In front of her, kneeling in the snow, sat a dark-haired boy, his eyes fixed on her and a gentle smile on his face.
Startled, the girl drew her foot back sharply, and the slipper fell once again to the ground.
The boy reached out swiftly, brushed the snow from it with his palm, and held it out to her.
"My name is Bell," he said softly. "I'm the grandson of the old carpenter."
The girl stared at the slipper in his hand, speechless. She couldn't believe it had come back to her… but there it was, right before her eyes.
Real. Undeniably real.
And just like that… she wouldn't be scolded when she returned home.
She tossed the spent matchstick into a pile of snow, wiped her hands on her tattered apron, and reached out with a trembling hand toward the slipper.
Then, with a shy voice, she said, "Thank you… so much, sir. I don't know how to repay your kindness… Perhaps I could offer you a few matchsticks in return…"
They were all she had.
She fumbled in her apron, pulled out a small bundle of matchsticks, and extended them with both hands, which were visibly shaking. Her eyes pleaded as she asked, "Would you like to buy some matches, sir?"
Bell nodded gently and pulled two coins from his satchel. He handed her one and said, "I'd like as many matches as this will buy."
Her pale, dirt-streaked face was drawn and weary. Her eyes had grown cloudy, her body shivering violently from the cold—she was nearing her limit.
She had already burned her first match.
Which meant… in the original tale, she was close to death.
In the story, the little match girl struck three matches.
And on the third, she saw a star fall from the sky… then lit them all, and her grandmother came to take her away.
If left to fate, she would die. That much was certain.
But Bell had already made up his mind.
He was going to save her.
"You've sold some matches now," he said softly. "Aren't you going home?"
He took a small handful of the matches—about ten—and placed the coin in her palm.
"Thank you," the girl whispered. "You're the first person to buy any from me in days…"
She clutched the coin with her small hands as though it might escape her, then gently tucked it into her apron.
Her voice dropped lower still. "I… can't go back yet."
Her gaze drifted toward the pile of snow where she had burned the match. She had just used one. Then she had given Bell several more…
If her father found out, he'd beat her. They always counted the matches when she returned.
And besides… their home was as cold as the street. It made no difference.
The smell of roast goose reached her nose again. She swallowed hard, hunger gnawing at her insides.
Bell placed the matches back into his satchel, then pulled out a small piece of stale bread and held it out to her.
"I returned your slipper," he said. "Would you help me with something? If you agree… the bread is yours."
She looked at him warily, hesitant to reach out—but she couldn't resist the hunger.
The bread seemed to beckon her with invisible hands.
"What do you want me to do, sir?" she asked in a faint voice.
Bell replied, "I'm new to this city. I've never been in this part of town before, and… I got lost. I don't know the way back to my house. Could you walk with me? If you do, this other coin is yours too."
His cheeks flushed slightly. He felt like a terrible liar… so he quickly held out the second coin, trying to sound more convincing.
The girl hesitated for a moment… then nodded.
This boy looked younger than her—it wasn't strange that he might lose his way. Besides, he had returned her mother's slipper, and he had bought her matches. She wasn't someone who forgot kindness.
And if she brought that coin home, she wouldn't be beaten.
She took the bread and began to eat, ravenously. She hadn't tasted food in what felt like forever.
Snow fell thick and silent, piling on their heads—black hair and golden curls, like two brushstrokes of color walking side by side.
They made their way through the layered snow.
Bell glanced up at the sky. No stars had fallen.
Then he turned to look at the girl walking beside him. She wasn't going to die tonight—at least, not tonight.
His grandfather's cottage stood on the edge of town—a sturdy little wooden hut.
"Thank you for walking me home, Louise," Bell said with a smile. "Would you like to come in? It's just me and my grandfather."
She had told him her name on the way back.
"I… I should go," she said hesitantly. "I still need to sell the rest of my matches…"
Her gaze lingered on the house. It looked so warm—so unlike her own home, which had a hole in the roof and no proper walls to keep the cold out.
Bell added gently,"It's dark now, and the snow's getting heavier… There might be wolves out. If you go back alone… one might find you."
He swallowed. The words made him sound like one of those men who lured children into traps…
"W-Wolves?" Louise stammered, her face suddenly pale.
She knew it was possible. Her home was still far away, and the snow was thick. She was only a child, after all…
Then a raspy voice called from inside the cottage,"Bell? Is that you?"
The old man opened the door, his hair and beard silver-white, his clothes rough and worn.
"Where've you been all this time? And what did you buy?"
"I bought some matchsticks, Grandpa… and I brought someone with me."
The old man's eyes lifted to the golden-haired girl standing behind Bell. She was staring at the ground, clutching her apron with trembling hands—lost, uncertain.
The man sighed."Come in…"
On a night like this, with the snowstorm raging outside… she wouldn't survive otherwise.
Inside the cottage, a small fire crackled in the hearth. A pot hung over it, releasing a soft, savory aroma.
The old man filled two wooden bowls with what was left of the stew and handed them to the children.
Louise accepted hers with hesitation, swallowing hard as she looked at Bell.
He was eating fast, which eased her fear—and so, slowly, she began to eat too, whispering to herself,"I'm so hungry…"
The old man watched them from across the room.
"Bell," he said at last, "after tonight… you'll need to take her back to her home. Her parents must be worried."
Bell frowned.
'Worried?'
Her parents? No one would miss her… she'd nearly died this evening.
But he said nothing, only nodded.
Louise didn't speak either. She ate quietly, tears welling in her eyes.
A drop fell into the wooden bowl.
It had been so long since she'd tasted food that was warm and good.
At home, they only had boiled beans… if anything at all.
She knew—no one was coming to look for her.
Suddenly, Bell said,"Grandpa… can I give her my other pair of shoes?"
The old man answered without looking up,"They're yours. Do with them what you like."
He stirred the pot and muttered to himself,"Foolish, as always…"
There had only been enough food for two, so he added a bit more water to the pot.
Bell hurried to his chest, pulled out a pair of shoes, and brought them to Louise.
She hesitated at first—but Bell insisted.
"You're… my first friend," he said. "And if you don't take them, I'll kick you out!"
Louise whispered, "Friend…?"
She hugged the shoes to her chest, curled up by the fire… and soon drifted into sleep.
Midnight passed.
And the cottage slept with it—holding the quiet breaths of three small souls.
No one noticed the slender beam of light that slipped down from the sky, passed silently through the roof…
… and settled gently into Bell's body.