That Christmas eve, it wasn’t any colder than it had been of late. In fact the temperature may have lifted to a degree over zero. The snow had stopped falling and had collected in gentle drifts by the sides of the road. In the dimly lit alleyway between the Daily Grind and the Titty Twister Bar, a poor girl crouched, frozen fingers clasping a half-crushed packet of cigarettes.

It is true she had on a pair of worn sneakers when she’d left home, but they were not of much use. They were too small and the sole flapped against the floor. Little Puddin’ had almost lost them as she’d dashed across the road to avoid the rushing slush spewed by a passing ambulance. The little girl’s legs beneath her mismatched socks were quite red and blue with the cold, soaked to the bone itself.

“Buy a ciggie will yer?” a hoarse voice whispered to the passing trade. Mercifully the young girl’s nose had stopped running, abated with the harsh chill.

No one had bought anything from her that entire afternoon, nor had anyone even given her a dime. The money from the cigarettes was to be given to her Mom; a Christmas present from a son who the woman cried for every day; a son that had not been seen for years. Little Puddin’ shivered with cold and hunger and crept along another alley. The snowflakes fell on her dark greasy hair, which hung in badly-plated strips on her shoulders.

Lights were shining from every window, and there was the scent of alcohol from one direction, the warm stench of fried food from another. In a corner, between the cemetery wall and a trashcan, she sank down and huddled, thin arms wrapped tight around the Santa Claus T-shirt. Santa had been kind this year. Little Puddin’ drew her little feet beneath her but she could not keep off the cold and she did not dare go home.

Her mother would be crying, praying for little Ricky and she’d not have put money in the meter. It would be almost as cold as outside. The wind would howl through the broken kitchen window and rattle the unwashed dishes in the sink.

“Lighter for yer Mister?”

Frozen fingers held up the plastic lighter.

“Only a dollar.”

The man walked on, not casting a sideways glance towards the crouching child, whose lower lip trembled, long lashes closing. Her little hands were almost frozen with the cold. Ah! Perhaps the lighter might be some good, if she could just get the flint to catch the gas.

Chhhtchhh...

Nothing.

Pssssssssssss...

She tried again, and then a light flared. The lighter burst into life and Puddin’ cupped one hand around it. It really was the most wonderful warmth. It seemed to the little girl that the snow-laden alleyway had vanished. The stench of rotten vegetables disappeared. She was gazing through a window into a bright room, decked with holly and sparkling baubles.

What was more wonderful was the table. It was decorated with a crisp white cloth, shining glasses and a dinner service from which you could see your face. The giant roasted turkey steamed an aroma that made the stomach growl.

The light died and so did the turkey. Blinking eyes looked up, momentarily blinded. Footsteps crunched past in the snow. The little girl’s cold trembling fingers tried again, fumbling to bring the night to life.

Pssssssss....

The Christmas lights from the tree in the room rose and danced around her, until they looked to her like stars in the sky. One seemed to shine extra brightly. “De angel star from ‘eaven itself” thought the little girl. Her eyes scrunched closed as she made a wish, for every little girl knew you had to make a wish when you saw a special star. She wished for her dead Daddy who she’d never met to be alive again. She wished for her brother to come home to make her Mom happy again. Most of all she wished for her Mom not to be sick.

Psssssssss....

She struggled with the lighter again, but it didn’t seem to matter so much anymore. The lights from the sky, from the nearby buildings had never appeared so large or so beautiful. Unknown arms wrapped around the little girl and she cried in their warmth. There was neither hunger nor cold nor pain anymore. There was just God. A God who glowed green. The hiss of the lighter ceased. The poor little lighter girl with pale cheeks and a smiling mouth sunk into the sleep of the snow.

(Adapted from Hans Christian Anderson's tale, the little matchstick girl)