A single candle flickered in the corner of a small, weary room. Its light trembled softly, painting golden ripples on the cracked walls and the wooden floor that creaked with age.
Shadows swayed with the flame, dancing quietly as if to keep the old woman company.
By that shy light, a grandmother sat knitting a tiny shirt, her fingers trembling but steady in purpose. The yarn scraped softly against her worn hands—hands that had carried too much, worked too long, and now moved only for love.
Her eyes, though clouded by years, shone with a quiet warmth. In a few days, it would be her granddaughter's birthday, and she wanted the little one to smile, even if she herself had forgotten how.
The candle guttered as a cold wind slipped through the window's cracks.
She looked out through the dusty glass, where the world still moved—carriages rolling over the cobbles, laughter echoing faintly from the streets below.
People hurried through the night, chasing dreams, chasing survival.
For them, life went on.
But for her… it stood still.
Debt hung over her like the winter fog, heavy and unkind.
Her son and his young wife were gone—lost to a cruel street quarrel that took everything but a child too small to understand.
The grandmother had nothing left now but that girl and the thin handful of coins her son had left behind. The kind hearts of the city were for the young and the lovely; no one spared a glance for an old woman bent with sorrow.
Still, she knitted on, each stitch a prayer she dared not speak aloud.
Her heart ached, and her eyes began to glisten. The sorrow was ready to spill over—until the faint sound of footsteps reached her ears. She hurriedly brushed at her face, pushing the sadness aside like a mother hiding tears from her child.
Then came the laughter.
Soft, bubbling, and full of sunshine. Tiny arms wrapped around her from behind, and warmth bloomed in her chest.
The old woman turned and pulled the little girl close, her frail hands trembling as they held on. The child's small body felt like a spark of life, a fragile flame in a dark and endless night.
She clung to that warmth as though it were the last candle left in the world—one that no wind could ever blow out.
"Grandma!"
The voice was light and sweet, like the ringing of a tiny bell.
It belonged to little Lisette—five years old, with hair like spun gold and eyes the color of bright crimson roses. In the dim glow of the candle, her hair shimmered softly, and her smile filled the room with a kind of light no flame could make.
The grandmother's lips curved into a tender smile as she reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from the girl's cheek. Lisette giggled, clutching at her grandmother's sleeve.
"Thank you for the candy this morning," she said with a bashful grin.
The old woman laughed—a tired but gentle sound. It had only been a few small sweets, barely worth a coin, yet the joy they brought had painted Lisette's face with sunshine.
If only she had more, the grandmother thought.
More coins, more days, more strength. She would buy the child all the candy in the world—just to see that smile every single day.
Lisette settled down beside her grandmother's legs, for there was only one chair in the room. The old woman had told her many times not to sit on the floor—it would dirty her dress, she said—but the little sunshine always forgot.
She loved being close, loved to watch those gentle hands move, and with her own tiny fingers she mimicked the motions, pulling at invisible threads as though she too were knitting art into cloth.
Tonight, the grandmother said nothing.
She only smiled quietly and let the child be. The candle flickered, and together they worked in silence—one with yarn and needle, the other with air and imagination.
Time slipped by softly, like sand through tired fingers.
At last, the old woman sighed and set down the half-finished shirt. Lisette saw her and immediately did the same, placing her invisible work aside with great ceremony.
Then she wiped pretend sweat from her brow and let out a dramatic little sigh.
"Oh, that was very tiring," she declared with a puff of her cheeks, "but I'll always do it—because I'm super good at it!"
The grandmother couldn't hold back her laughter and gently patted the little girl, who squealed in delight at having made her laugh.
But the moment of joy faded too soon.
Her smile wavered as a sharp pain rose in her chest.
She tried to breathe, but a harsh cough tore through her instead. One after another, the coughs came—violent, burning—and when she lifted her trembling hand to her lips, she felt the faint stickiness of something warm.
Red.
Lisette froze for a heartbeat, her bright eyes widening in terror.
Then she jumped up, running across the small room on unsteady legs. She snatched a cup from the table and filled it with shaking hands, spilling some along the way.
When she came back, tears were streaming down her face.
"Grandma, please," she cried, voice trembling as she held out the cup, "please drink, please, please be okay! Don't go, please don't leave me alone, please—"
Her tiny voice broke under the weight of her fear, and the word please spilled from her lips again and again, as if saying it enough times could make her grandmother stay.
Lisette held the cup with shaking hands, helping her grandmother drink.
The old woman's lips touched the rim, and after a few careful sips, her breathing began to steady. The coughing grew softer… until at last, it stopped.
But Lisette couldn't stop crying.
Her chest trembled as she threw her arms around her grandmother's frail frame, pressing her face into the worn fabric of her dress.
"Please don't leave me alone… please, Grandma," she whispered between sobs. "Don't leave me… I'll be a good girl, I promise… I'll be good… just please don't go…"
Her small voice cracked again and again, each plea thinner than the last, trembling with the kind of fear only a child could feel—the fear of losing the one person left to hold on to.
Her grandmother raised a trembling hand and gently patted the child's head. Then she pulled her close, wrapping her in a weak but tender embrace.
"Hush now," she murmured softly, her voice thin but warm. "I won't leave you… I'll stay with you forever."
The words were a lie, and she knew it.
Yet as she spoke them, she tried to believe them too—if only for this moment, for the sake of the little girl trembling in her arms.
Lisette buried herself deeper into her grandmother's chest, clutching tightly, refusing to let go. It took many long minutes before her sobs began to fade, and in that time, the grandmother kept holding her, whispering small comforts through the ache in her chest.
Then Lisette's belly spoke for her, grumbling softly in the quiet room.
Her cheeks turned pink at once, and she buried her face against her grandmother's side to hide her embarrassment.
The older woman let out a small chuckle and stroked the girl's hair. "It's time for dinner anyway," she said gently. "Come, let's go to the kitchen."
Lisette nodded and rose to her feet.
She fetched her grandmother's cane from beside the chair, placed it carefully in her hand, and held the other as they made their slow way toward the little kitchen.
It was dark inside, the air cool and still.
Lisette hurried back to the living room and returned with the candle, its small flame swaying and painting the shadows gold.
In that thin light, the grandmother reached for a worn basket and began to search inside. At last, she pulled out a small loaf of bread—the one she had baked that morning.
It was hard now, cold and stiff from the chill, but it was all she had to give.
When Lisette saw the small loaf of bread, she hesitated.
Her lips parted, then closed again before she finally whispered, "Grandma… is there really nothing else to eat? I'm… really hungry."
The grandmother froze.
Her heart ached so sharply it felt as if something inside had torn.
She opened her mouth, but no words came. Nothing she could say would make it better.
Lisette saw her grandmother's expression, and her own face changed at once. She trembled, shaking her head quickly as tears gathered in her eyes.
"N-no, it's fine," she said in a rush. "This is enough, Grandma. I don't need more. I'm little, I don't need much food."
Her voice wavered as she forced a tiny smile, but the fear behind it showed clear as glass.
She clutched at her grandmother's hand and pleaded, "Please don't throw me away… I'll be good, I promise. I'm not hungry, really, I'm not…"
Her stomach betrayed her with a low rumble, but she ignored it completely, her voice breaking as she begged again and again, terrified and desperate to be believed.
Tears welled up in the grandmother's eyes.
She shook her head quickly and pulled the little girl into her arms once more, holding her tight.
"Oh, my sweet sunshine," she whispered softly, her voice trembling, "don't say such things. How could I ever throw you away? Where did you even get such ideas?"
Lisette's words came through broken sobs, muffled against her grandmother's chest. "I… I heard Aunty Liana yesterday," she cried.
"She told... her husband that the poor grandmother was probably deciding... if she should throw me out or not…"
The grandmother's breath caught, and her heart twisted painfully.
She fought hard to keep her tears back as she stroked the child's hair.
"No, no, my darling," she whispered, her voice shaking. "Never. I would never do that… not ever… no matter what happens."
"Really?" the little girl asked, her voice small and shaky, still not fully believing it.
She looked up, her face streaked with tears, her golden hair tangled and sticking to her cheeks.
The grandmother nodded and leaned down to kiss her gently on the forehead.
Then she held her close and whispered, "We'll find a way, my little Lisette. Together. You don't have to worry about anything."
The words settled in the child's heart like a warm blanket.
Lisette's trembling stopped, and she threw her arms around her grandmother, hugging her as tightly as she could, believing every word.
...
Lisette woke to the pale breath of morning.
The candle had long gone out, leaving the room gray and shivering in the dim light that slipped through the cracks. Though the windows were shut and a thin blanket wrapped around her, the cold still found its way in, biting at her skin.
But the chill wasn't what made her stir.
Something strange pressed against her shoulders — something that should have been warm and familiar. Her grandmother's hands… yet not quite.
They felt cold. Cold and stiff, the kind of touch that didn't belong to the living warmth she had known.
Lisette blinked, confused.
A faint fog of breath left her lips as she pushed herself up, her small fingers brushing against that unfamiliar coldness. Slowly, she lifted her grandmother's hand from her shoulder — the skin soft yet heavy, the color pale in the morning light.
The little girl sat up on the bed, her brows knitting together, not yet understanding what her heart already feared to know.
She stared at the sleeping old woman, something twisting in her chest.
It didn't feel right.
The room was too still, too quiet. She reached out quickly and shook her, once, twice — harder the second time — but the old woman didn't move.
Her breath caught.
The old woman's chest wasn't rising. No faint sound, no warmth leaving her lips.
Nothing.
Lisette's eyes widened, the thought heavy and slow as it formed.
Why wasn't she breathing?
That didn't make sense.
People needed to breathe to live. Everyone did. Even the animals. Even the monsters.
Breathing was the first thing, the most important thing — more than food, more than water.
So how could her grandmother not be breathing?
That didn't make sense. None of it did. It was impossible. She had to be wrong — she was wrong.
So Lisette checked again. And again. And again. Her tiny hands pressed against the old woman's chest, her ear hovered over her lips, her eyes watched, waited, begged for a sign. But there was nothing. No breath. No movement.
No life.
But how could that be?
How?
It didn't add up. It couldn't. She thought about it over and over, like a broken wheel that wouldn't stop turning. And still, no matter how many times she turned it, it just didn't fit.
Why didn't she wake up from all the shaking? Why didn't she open her eyes and smile like she always did? Why didn't she say, "Silly girl, I was only resting"?
Lisette's throat tightened.
Fear, loneliness, confusion — they crawled up her spine and wrapped around her heart. She didn't dare make a sound. Because if even her cries couldn't wake the sleeping old woman…
Then she'd have to think it. She'd have to know it.
No.
No.
NO!!
IT IS NOT TRUE! SHE IS ALIVE AND WELL!
Lisette nodded to herself, trembling, her chest heaving as if to force the lie to become real.
Alright, so then—she was just sleeping.
Yes, of course. She deserved to rest. She was old, and she was taking care of little Lisette every single day—feeding her, keeping her warm, holding her close when the nights got too long.
So… Lisette just had to give her some space. Some time. And then she'd come to.
Yes. That was what she should do.
That's what good girls did. And she was a good girl. She promised she'd be a good girl for her grandmother, and good girls always kept their promises.
And… Grandmother…
Huh? Why was she crying right now?
Why were there tears welling up in her eyes?
Tsk, silly Lisette—crying for no reason. So silly of her.
She wiped the tears away quickly, shaking her head like she could knock the sadness out of it.
Yes, yes—Grandmother told her yesterday she'd always be there for her. Always with her.
And she wouldn't lie. No, never. Grandmother never lied.
So why should Lisette worry at all?
She promised to be a good girl.
And good girls get good things…
Because they're good.
Right?
Her mom always used to say that—good girls get good things. And so did her dad.
But… they both went away.
Because Lisette was bad that day.
She stole a piece of candy. Just one. Without telling anyone. It was sweet and small and gone in a second—but that night, when her parents went out, they never came back.
So she promised herself she'd never be bad again.
Never.
She's been a good girl ever since. Always listened, always helped, always smiled when she was told to.
So why… why is Grandmother not waking up?
Why is she still sleeping?
Is she… is she playing a prank on her?
That must be it, yes! It's just a prank!
But…
Grandmother wasn't the type to play pranks on people. She didn't laugh much, not like that.
So then… hmm…
This was strange, wasn't it?
Yes… it truly was.
Oh? Look—there it was, a candle!
But it wasn't lit…
And Lisette felt so cold.
Her tiny fingers were numb, her breath came out like smoke, and she thought—Grandmother must be even colder than her.
So… she should light it up, right?
Yes, yes! That's what a good girl would do. She'll make the room warm again, for both of them. Then Grandmother will see how useful she can be.
Lisette stood up from the bed, wobbling a little, and took one of the few matches left.
Her hands trembled as she struck it once—no light. Twice—nothing.
Then, on the third try…
Fsshhh!
The match came alive, a small flame dancing wildly at the tip. Its light flickered across the dark room, painting her face in orange warmth.
Lisette smiled, eyes wide with delight.
She brought the tiny fire to the candle's wick, and—tada!
See? Now it wasn't so cold anymore.
The fire felt so warm… so soft against her skin.
Lisette held her hands close to it, watching the flame sway like a tiny dancer, graceful and proud.
If she closed her eyes—just a little—she could almost see it now.
She was in a grand ballroom, floors of shining gold, and people clapping all around her. Their faces were bright and kind, their laughter sweet.
She twirled and twirled, her little dress spinning like petals in the air. And look—there was a prince! He nodded at her, asking for her hand, because she was a good girl, and good girls always get beautiful things.
Yes, that's how it should be. Her dream will come true.
And then, her parents will come back. They'll smile and hold her tight and tell her how proud they are.
Right?
And then… and then… and then Grandmother will wake up too…
Right?
Why was she crying?
Lisette's so silly, honestly… always getting emotional for no reason.
It must be because she's happy, right?
Yes—yes, that has to be it! She's happy about her dream… about the ballroom, and the prince, and her parents coming back… right?
Right?
Her lips trembled as she nodded to no one. It was such a beautiful dream, so of course she was happy. That's why her eyes were wet, that's all. Just happiness spilling out.
R-right?
R… ri…
…
Nothing.
No more words.
The thought froze halfway in her chest, heavy and cold.
Because deep down, she couldn't escape it anymore.
It was there, pressed against her heart, whispering without a voice—
the truth.
No candle flame could erase it.
Not one match… not a thousand.
She had to accept it.
But she didn't want to…
Why should she?
She was such a good girl, wasn't she? She always listened, always helped, always smiled when told to.
And then… and then… why?
What did she do wrong this time?
What was she supposed to do now?
What could she even do?
She was only five.
Only five.
Her chest tightened, her breath hitched, and before she knew it—
she broke.
Tears spilled faster than she could wipe them, warm rivers running down her cold cheeks. She cried and cried beside the little candle, her sobs shaking her tiny shoulders, her voice cracking like the old wood under her knees.
The flame swayed gently, as if unsure whether to dance or bow out.
And there she was—
all alone in the room.
With… with…
No.
She shouldn't say it.
Because there was no one else there.
No one at all.
Only her.
Only Lisette.
All alone in the room.
...
Time went by fast—too fast for Lisette to understand it.
The hours blurred together, her eyes swollen from crying until no more tears would come. When her throat hurt too much to sob, she had gone to the neighbors nearby—yes, the same ones who had whispered cruel things about her grandmother.
She stood at their door, small and shivering, and told them about the death of… her last candle.
The husband had frowned, his face uneasy, but he did the right thing.
He called for people, spoke to others, and soon enough, the burial was arranged—quick and quiet. The ground was cold that morning, and the air was heavy, but the man paid for it all out of his own pocket.
He didn't say much, and neither did Lisette.
When it was done, when the dirt had been pressed flat and everyone went back to their own warm homes, a question began to float around like a ghost:
Where would little Lisette live now?
Would she be sent to the local orphanage, like the other forgotten children with no one left to claim them?
Lisette didn't want that.
No, she knew someone—just one person, one fragile thread that still connected her to her family.
Her uncle.
Her father's brother.
The man her grandmother had warned her about again and again, even on her sickest days.
The one she loathed till the very end.
But young Lisette didn't want to be alone.
No child ever does.
So she hoped—oh, how she hoped—that maybe Grandmother had been wrong about him. Maybe time had softened his heart, maybe he had changed, maybe there was still kindness left somewhere behind that name she had been taught to fear.
With trembling lips, Lisette told the neighbor's husband about her uncle. The man hesitated, but at last, he made the call.
The uncle arrived that very same day.
He was a middle-aged man with a thick, unkempt beard and hair that looked like it hadn't seen a comb in years. His stomach hung heavy beneath his vest.
He growled and muttered about being disturbed, his voice rough like gravel.
And though his own mother had died that morning, there was not a flicker of sorrow in his eyes.
Not a word of mourning.
But when he was told that, should he take in little Lisette, the house would become his—his tone changed instantly.
He smiled.
He cheered up.
He signed the papers with a stubby, ink-stained hand.
By evening, all the documents were finished. The officials left. The neighbors shut their doors.
And then it was just the two of them—Lisette and her uncle—alone in what used to be her warm little living room, now cold and empty.
He stared down at her, a strange, heavy silence stretching between them.
And she stared back—tiny, pale, her eyes swimming with fear, confusion, and a sadness too deep for her years.
He opened his mouth and finally spoke—his voice low, rough, and careless.
His eyes weren't on her.
They were moving across the furniture, the walls, as if measuring what was now his. Lisette was nothing more than an afterthought—a shadow at the edge of his new inheritance.
"From today onward," he said flatly, "you'll work to earn your keep. I'm not looking after you for free."
He scratched his beard, glanced toward the window, and continued, "You'll sell matches. Out on the streets. Every morning I'll give you a few boxes, and by evening, you'll bring back the money."
His tone turned almost casual, as if he were discussing the weather. "I'll feed you once a day. Twice if you sell everything."
Then his eyes finally landed on her—cold, sharp, unfeeling.
"But," he added, voice hardening, "you'd better sell at least half before you come home. And if I ever catch you playing around…"
He took a step closer, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots.
Lisette froze.
"…you won't like what I'll do."
A long silence followed—heavy, stifling.
Then his lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "In fact," he muttered, reaching toward her, "I'll give you a taste now."
Lisette stumbled back, her small hands trembling as she tried to plead—her voice breaking between gasps and tears. "I'll be good! I'll do everything you say! Please, please don't hurt me!"
But her words were nothing to him.
They vanished before they could reach his ears.
His hand swung through the air and struck her cheek with a sharp, echoing crack.
She fell hard onto the wooden floor, the sting burning through her skin. For a moment she didn't even breathe—just lay there, dazed, before tasting the faint, metallic trace of blood on her lips.
Her little body began to tremble uncontrollably.
He laughed.
A low, satisfied sound.
Then, without hesitation, his boot met her stomach.
Lisette cried out, curling in on herself, hands clutching her sides as she gasped for air. The world spun in her eyes—fear, pain, confusion all tangled into one.
He watched her, expressionless for a moment, then gave a slow nod of approval, almost like a craftsman pleased with his work.
He crouched slightly, his voice low but edged with mockery.
"This," he said, "is just a small taste of what I can do. So you'd better behave."
Lisette clutched her stomach, her breath shallow and broken, tears running down her cheeks as her body trembled. She didn't dare open her eyes—she didn't want to see him standing there, towering, smiling.
But then his tone changed. The smile disappeared.
"Did you hear me?" he barked, his voice thunderous.
Lisette flinched and nodded quickly, her voice shaking.
"I-I'll be good… I'll listen to everything… please don't hurt me anymore…"
He stared at her for a long moment, then gave a slow, approving nod.
"Good girl."
Reaching into his pocket, he fished out a small, crumpled piece of candy and tossed it beside her. It landed near her hand, the wrapper dirty from his touch.
"This'll do for tonight," he said coldly. "You didn't work, so you don't get anything. I'm being merciful giving you this much for free."
He lingered, his gaze heavy.
Lisette felt something wrong in the air, and quickly whispered, "Th-thank you…" her eyes fixed on the floor.
He grunted, almost pleased with himself.
"Heh… I can't help it," he muttered. "I'm just too kind for my own good."
With that, he turned and walked away.
The door shut behind him with a dull thud, and the silence that followed was colder than the night outside.
Lisette stared at the closed door, half-expecting it to fling open again— but it stayed shut.
He was gone.
He was gone, right? PLEASE LET IT BE THAT HE'S GONE.
She clutched her knees to her chest and then—then the voice inside her cracked like ice.
She was STUPID. A COMPLETE STUPID IDIOT. WHY DIDN'T SHE LISTEN TO HER GRANDMOTHER? WHY? WHY DIDN'T SHE LISTEN?
AH! IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW.
She was a bad girl.
She had TAKEN the candy that one day. She had been DISOBEDIENT. This—this was the punishment. SHE DESERVED IT. IT WAS HER FAULT. HERS AND HERS ALONE.
This—this will be her life now. If you ACT STUPID, then you DESERVE PAIN. She had acted stupid, so she deserved it.
Her uncle… he was right.
He was SUCH a NICE PERSON. He even GAVE her CANDY. And this—this was after she'd been a bad, stupid girl.
What a kind man, truly, so merciful.
She pressed her face into her arms and rocked, the words tumbling and pounding in her head until they were all she could hear.
She contacted him.
Her grandmother had warned her not to—but she did it anyway.
It wasn't so bad, was it?
Maybe it was her fault for being bad that night, and he only punished her because she'd been naughty. Maybe he was RIGHT.
Maybe he was helping her even by being harsh—after all, he'd GIVEN her candy when she hadn't worked. Wasn't that kindness? He shouldn't have done that.
SHE'D BE GOOD TOMORROW.
Yes. She'd TRY. She'd make him proud.
Sell matches on the streets, he said.
She'd never sold anything before—not a single thing—but she would learn. She would sell every box he gave her. She would not play, she would not waste time, she would be PERFECT.
Because if she didn't—if she failed—then she would be a BAD GIRL.
AND BAD GIRLS GET PUNISHED.
Lisette hugged that thought tight and swallowed hard. She did not want punishment. She would sell all the boxes.
She would be a GOOD GIRL.
She looked at the small wrapped candy piece sitting beside her, the one he had given her — her reward, her mercy.
Slowly, carefully, she unwrapped it, the crinkle of paper echoing in the cold, empty room.
She placed it on her tongue.
Sweet. Too sweet. It melted fast, but it was warm… warm enough that she didn't notice the wetness on her cheeks until it dripped to her chin.
Tears? Again?
Silly Lisette.
This was no time for tears. She had candy, didn't she?
She had a bed, a roof, and tomorrow she'd be a GOOD GIRL.
GOOD GIRLS DON'T CRY.
GOOD GIRLS SLEEP EARLY.
GOOD GIRLS SMILE.
So she brushed the tears away—but they just kept falling.
Ah, what a silly girl she was.
So she let them fall, and smiled anyway, a trembling smile, a smile full of tears.
...
The next morning arrived quicker than she'd wanted — the night had slipped away like a thief, leaving only the dull ache in her stomach and a candy wrapper on the floor.
Lisette stood outside the house, the old door creaking shut behind her, a faint echo in the cold air. Three other children stood nearby — two boys, one girl — all around her age, all silent.
They didn't look at her, and she didn't look at them. The silence between them wasn't awkward — it was survival.
Her long, silky blonde hair fluttered in the wind, and her crimson eyes glimmered faintly with determination — fragile, trembling, but still there.
She'd make him proud. She had to make him proud.
That was all that mattered.
A brown coat hung loosely on her small frame, the sleeves too long, the fabric worn thin, but it kept her mostly warm.
The air bit at her cheeks and the ground crunched beneath her boots. Snow hadn't fallen yet — not quite — but Lisette could feel it coming, heavy and white, hiding the world under a soft, cold blanket.
Her uncle had arrived early that morning, heavy steps and heavier breath filling the house before the sun had even stretched across the sky.
He found her waiting — already awake, standing near the door with trembling hands and hopeful eyes.
That made him smile. Smile! He even called her a good girl.
There, she did it.
She did well, right? That word — good — it lit something warm in her chest. Proof that she could do it, proof that she wasn't bad after all.
He told her to dress warmly before heading out, and Lisette thought: How kind.
He cared for her warmth, her safety — he was such a nice person. Truly. Only a nice person would remind her not to get cold.
Then, before he left, he said something else — short, sharp, final: "Don't talk to the others."
And Lisette nodded eagerly, clutching that rule to her heart like a sacred promise.
She'd make him proud, she'd listen perfectly, and she wouldn't say a single word to the other children. Not one. Nope. Not even a whisper.
Because she was a good girl, and she'd stay that way.
Always.
They didn't have to wait long — just an hour.
An hour of stillness, of frozen breath hanging in the morning air like faint ghosts.
What was that compared to the joy of making him proud? What was a little cold, a little numbness in her fingers and toes?
Nothing at all.
A small price for a smile.
And then, he returned — that same smile curling his lips, the one that made her chest tighten and her heart beat faster, but she didn't know why.
In his hand was a large sack, heavy and crinkling with promise.
He stood before them, his shadow stretching long over the snow, and began to hand each child a smaller bag.
One for the first boy. One for the second. One for the quiet girl at the end. And finally, one for Lisette — her small hands clutching it as if it were a treasure.
Inside were rows of matchboxes, neatly packed, tiny sticks of light waiting to be sold.
He spoke then — calm, low, the kind of voice that could smile and threaten all at once.
They were to sell at least half. Or not, he said, his tone twisting at the edges. But they had to bring him the money for half.
Otherwise… he said, glancing at each of them, his eyes like dull knives under his brow…they wouldn't like what came next.
The other three kids trembled — their shoulders shaking like leaves about to break from a branch.
But not Lisette.
Well… she wished she didn't.
But her body didn't listen. Her fingers twitched, her knees wobbled ever so slightly. Still, she told herself, that's just the cold.
Yes. That's all it was.
Silly Lisette — it's freezing, of course you'd tremble! It had nothing to do with his voice echoing in her head, or the way his eyes had glinted when he said they wouldn't like it.
No, no, no. It was just the weather. That's what she decided. That's what she had to believe.
Because she was a good girl, and good girls didn't get punished.
Her uncle turned away, his heavy steps fading into the distance.
The other three children didn't even glance at her. They just turned and scattered — one left, one right, one straight ahead — as if they were afraid of being seen too close to one another.
And Lisette… she stood there for a moment, clutching her small bag to her chest, staring down the empty street where the snow hadn't yet fallen.
...
Lisette found herself standing in the middle of the cold, bustling street.
Carriages rattled past, their wheels clanging on the cobblestones, men and women brushing by without a glance, their eyes never pausing on her small figure.
She clutched the little bag tightly to her chest, fingers curling around it as if it were a lifeline.
Where should I start? she wondered, her gaze scanning the buildings and doorways.
Finally, she spotted a small empty patch beside a tall, shadowed building.
That would do. That would be good enough. She shuffled closer, feeling the eyes of the passing crowd like invisible pins pressing into her skin.
Her lips trembled.
She felt shy, afraid her words would vanish before anyone could hear them. But then… she remembered yesterday.
The punishment for being a bad girl.
The need to make her uncle proud.
The promise to be good.
Her chest tightened with determination. I can do this. I must.
Summoning every ounce of courage, she straightened her shoulders and called out, her small voice carrying across the cobbles: "Kibrit for sale! The best kibrit here! Buy one for cheap, please, buy from me, misters!"
Her voice wavered, but it was there — bold, trembling, and full of hope.
At first, no one paid the little girl any attention.
The street was too busy, the people too wrapped up in their own hurried lives.
Then, finally, someone noticed.
A young man, with kind eyes and a gentle smile, stopped and handed her three bronze coins. Lisette's fingers trembled as she took them, and she offered him a small matchbox in return, her own shaky smile brightening her pale face.
"Thank you, mister," she whispered.
He nodded, patting her head lightly before moving on, disappearing into the crowd.
But the moment of relief didn't last.
The door of the building beside her creaked open, slow and deliberate, and a figure stepped out. A middle-aged woman, her clothes worn and ragged, but her eyes sharp and burning with anger.
She strode toward Lisette, the clack of her boots echoing in the street.
Lisette froze, her matchbox clutched tightly to her chest.
She had stopped shouting, her small voice silenced by fear, and took a trembling step back. Her crimson eyes widened as the woman's gaze bore into her.
The woman's hand shot out without a word.
The slap landed hard, and Lisette toppled to the cold cobblestones, frozen in shock. Her small body trembled, heart hammering.
What did I do wrong now? she thought, eyes wide, voice caught in her throat.
Before she could even breathe, the woman spat, and it landed on her cheek, the warm, sticky moisture stinging her eye.
She blinked rapidly, rubbing it away with the sleeve of her coat, murmuring frantic apologies — not even sure for what, just begging, please, don't hurt me… please, don't…
Then, suddenly, a strong hand pushed the woman back.
The young man from before — the one who had bought a matchbox minutes ago — stepped between them, his face tense.
Lisette didn't hear their words; she only saw the circle of people forming, murmuring, staring.
Her trembling hands found her small bag, and without thinking, she turned and ran, the cobblestones cold beneath her feet, tears stinging her eyes.
The young man called after her, but she didn't look back. She couldn't.
Fear propelled her forward, away from the chaos, away from the anger.
By the time she dared to slow her steps, the crowd, the woman, even the kind young man — all had vanished behind her.
...
She chose another corner of the street, tucked between two buildings where the wind wasn't as harsh. This time, thankfully, nothing bad happened.
Her small fingers clutched the bag tightly as she tried again and again, calling out in her soft, timid voice, choosing her words carefully, and adding the cutest tilt of her head when anyone glanced her way.
Hours passed slowly, but she kept going, determination burning in her crimson eyes.
And by the end of the day… she did it. Every last matchbox was gone.
SHE DID IT!
She was a GOOD GIRL!
No punishment tonight! No sharp hands, no yelling, no tears.
Maybe… maybe even a reward? Her uncle had promised that before, hadn't he?
Her small heart beat faster as she hurried home, hope fluttering like a little bird inside her chest.
When she arrived, he was waiting.
His eyes softened just a little as he looked at her, and then — he praised her. Called her a good girl, smiled for her, really smiled, the kind of smile that made her chest swell and her eyes sparkle with pride.
She had done it. She had been GOOD. And for tonight… tonight, she was safe.
Lisette noticed the chair in the living room — the very one her grandmother used to sit on, knitting little clothes for her — was gone.
But she didn't mind. Not at all.
As long as her uncle was happy… that was all that mattered.
She was useful.
She was a GOOD GIRL.
He had said so, hadn't he?
He placed two small pieces of soft bread before her. Still warm, as if it had just come from the oven. Her stomach growled fiercely at the sight, nearly making her leap at it — but no!
Only BAD GIRLS acted that way. She was a GOOD GIRL. She could wait.
Her uncle's words lingered in her ears: he expected great results tomorrow too.
Once he left, the waiting ended.
Lisette's small hands dove for the bread, her hunger giving her strength. The first loaf disappeared in barely a minute, crumbs falling onto the floor, her cheeks warm from the effort and excitement.
She chewed quickly, savoring every bit, the taste of warmth and safety mingling with the small victory of being a GOOD GIRL.
But it wasn't enough.
Lisette's eyes fell on the second loaf, sitting there, soft and warm. This was supposed to be for tomorrow morning, wasn't it?
But her stomach growled so loudly, aching, demanding, begging…
No.
She was a GOOD GIRL. She would wait. She promised. From now on, she'd always be…
Huh? Why were there tears running down her cheeks?
Why was she crying again?
Tsk. Silly Lisette. She just couldn't seem to stop, could she?
Such a silly girl, letting little tears fall like tiny rivers.
But it was okay. It was okay. Because she had done well today. She had been GOOD.
So, though her cheeks were wet and trembling, she smiled anyway — a smile full of tears, shining with pride and hope and the strange, fragile warmth of a small victory.
...
Tomorrow, it was the same thing.
Her uncle came early and found her finishing the loaf of bread. He told her to dress warmly and wait outside with the others, and she obeyed, putting on the same brown coat from yesterday.
The two boys were standing fine, though their eyes looked emptier than before.
But the girl…
The girl had a black eye.
Her small hands were trembling, and her whole body quivered as if the cold had reached deep into her bones. She looked like she wanted to cry but couldn't even find the strength for that.
Lisette wanted to walk up to her, to say something — anything — maybe that it was going to be okay, that she could be her friend, that she just had to be a good girl and nothing bad would happen anymore…
But she couldn't.
Because her uncle had told her not to talk to the other kids. And if she disobeyed, she'd be a Bad Girl.
And Bad Girls get punished.
So Lisette stayed still, clutching the hem of her coat and looking at the girl with quiet guilt. She wanted to help her. She really, really did. But Good Girls don't break promises.
Good Girls follow orders.
And Lisette… Lisette wanted to be a Good Girl.
Tsk, Lisette is so selfish, isn't she?
Such a horrible person who won't help others when they need it.
But… she also needed to be a GOOD GIRL, right?
Yes, a GOOD GIRL.
Lisette stopped thinking about it — because what was the point?
What could she even do? Nothing, that's what.
Besides, it was just a misunderstanding anyway. It wasn't her uncle who hit the girl, no no, that couldn't be possible.
He was kind, he smiled when she did well, he gave her bread and candy. He wouldn't do that. The girl must've fallen on her own.
Yes, that was it. She fell.
So, Lisette decided not to think anymore.
She just needed to wait a few days, and the bruise would heal, and everything would be fine again. Yup. That was all there was to it.
That's all.
Soon enough, her uncle came back with the bags and ordered them to return with at least half sold, just like yesterday.
Lisette nodded eagerly — she remembered how proud he'd been before, how he smiled.
She'd make him smile again.
She went back to the same spot from the day before and began calling out softly, "Kibrit! Cheap kibrit for sale! Please buy some, misters!"
Her voice trembled at first, but after a while, she found her rhythm.
A few kind people stopped and bought from her, and she smiled with every sale.
But then… something happened.
A man in a black uniform was walking toward her — a policeman.
He wore a long coat and a black cap that shone slightly under the pale light. And beside him… beside him was her.
The same woman who slapped her yesterday.
Lisette's breath caught in her throat.
The woman pointed straight at her, her face twisted in anger, saying something Lisette couldn't even hear through the ringing in her ears. The policeman's boots echoed closer, thud, thud, thud.
Lisette froze where she stood.
Her heart screamed at her to run — to just run!
But… no.
No, she couldn't. GOOD GIRLS didn't run from the police. GOOD GIRLS didn't make scenes. GOOD GIRLS stood still and waited.
So Lisette stood there, trembling, waiting for whatever came next.
The woman's words soon began to make sense through the haze of Lisette's fear. She was shouting — something about the little girl selling without a license, disturbing the peace, annoying her customers with that constant yelling.
Her voice was sharp, slicing through the murmurs of the street.
The policeman nodded along with her complaints.
He was a middle-aged man, tall, with a thick mustache and tired eyes. He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing the small space around Lisette.
"Permit," he said flatly, holding out his hand.
Lisette blinked.
"P… Permit?" she repeated weakly, her small voice barely reaching him.
What was that? What did he mean?
Her uncle hadn't mentioned anything about a permit… She didn't have one. She didn't even know what one looked like.
Her lips quivered as she shook her head slowly.
Words refused to come out — she couldn't even explain herself.
Her body felt heavy, her chest tight.
She was trembling again… yet there was no snow falling.
The woman snickered beside the policeman, her voice full of cruel satisfaction — like she'd been waiting for this.
The policeman's brow furrowed, anger flashing across his face. He turned and barked something at her, telling her to back off, but then his hand shot out and grabbed Lisette by the hair.
She gasped — a small, broken sound — as he dragged her toward a nearby alleyway.
The stones scraped beneath her shoes, her small fingers clawing weakly at his arm, trying not to cry out.
Her scalp burned.
But no, no, she couldn't cry.
She wasn't a BAD GIRL.
Bad girls screamed. Bad girls caused trouble. She wasn't one of them.
The policeman was just… doing his job.
Yes, that was it. He was a nice man, doing what was right.
In the alleyway, he said nothing at first. The silence was loud — too loud.
Then—
SLAP.
Her head jerked sideways. The world spun.
Then another hit — and another. A sharp kick to her side, her ribs, her stomach.
Over and over again.
"Filth," he spat. "Trash. Worthless little—"
Words she didn't understand followed. Ugly words. Heavy words.
"Why didn't you get a permit, huh?!" he shouted.
Lisette curled up on the cold ground, shaking, hugging her knees.
She wanted to say sorry, to explain, but she didn't know how. She didn't even know what she had done wrong.
She just knew that she must have — because she was a bad girl again.
Lisette's small voice broke through her sobs, trembling and desperate — she couldn't take it anymore.
"P–Please… please stop! I'll be good! I'll be a good girl, I promise!"
The policeman's boot froze mid–swing. For a moment, there was silence — only her ragged breathing.
He crouched down, his shadow covering her small, shaking form.
His tone changed — lower, almost amused.
"Oh? You'll be a good girl, huh? Then tell me—" He grabbed her chin roughly, forcing her to look up at him. "If you were really a good girl, you'd have come to me first and paid your due, wouldn't you?"
She blinked, confused through the tears, the words hardly making sense. "P–Paid…?"
He chuckled — a short, cruel sound. "Ten bronze coins. That's what it takes for little match girls to sell here. No permit, no safety."
Ten bronze… that was so much… but she didn't think.
Her trembling fingers reached into her pocket, pulled out the small cloth pouch her uncle had given her.
She fumbled, counting fast — one, two, three… her fingers shaking too hard to hold them right — and then just poured everything she had into his hand.
"Here," she said, voice small, breaking, "please… please don't hurt me anymore…"
He smiled wide, slipping the coins into his pocket with a satisfied hum.
"See what happens when you don't follow the rules?" he said, crouching down so his shadow fell over her small, shaking form.
"You did this to yourself, filthy little girl. Should've asked for permission first, huh?"
Lisette didn't speak, her lips trembling too much to form words.
He chuckled. "You'll pay me the same every week. Ten bronze, or one silver. You don't bring it, and I'll make your life worse than this. MUCH worse, understand?"
She nodded quickly, her head jerking up and down in panic.
"Good," he said, straightening up, adjusting his cap like nothing had happened. "Remember, next week. Same time, same place. Be a good girl now."
His boots echoed against the cobblestone as he walked away, leaving her there — small, broken, and shaking.
She clutched her stomach, pain burning deep, and before she knew it, she threw up, her body rejecting everything at once.
Her breath came out in ragged gasps, but no tears fell.
There were none left to give.
...
Lisette didn't know how long she stayed there in that cold, narrow alleyway — minutes, hours, maybe longer.
Time felt like it had stopped.
When her trembling finally eased enough for her to move, she wiped her mouth and face with her sleeve, smearing dirt and blood across her coat.
The fabric felt stiff now, like her skin.
She stepped back into the street, her legs weak and her body heavy, and forced herself to speak again.
"Kibrit… Kibrit for sale…"
Her voice was small, cracked, almost swallowed by the noise around her.
People passed by without sparing her a glance, but somehow, she sold a few more boxes. Enough for some coins — small, cold pieces of metal that now rested in her shaking hands.
She stared at them, unable to feel anything.
The world seemed far away, distant, unreal.
'Why am I still alive?' she thought, the words echoing faintly in her mind. 'Why do I keep going? Why not just stop?'
Yeah, why are you still alive?
Why not just give up, little Lisette?
Listen to me, end it.
It's better that way, believe me!!!
Why not just stop?
Ah… right.
Because she needed to be a GOOD GIRL.
That's what she promised. That's what she had to be.
But today—
Today, she was a BAD GIRL, wasn't she?
The policeman said so. Her uncle would say the same.
And good girls didn't cry.
Good girls didn't complain.
Good girls endured.
...
Lisette's steps felt mechanical as she reached the worn-down doorway of home. Her uncle was waiting, a cigarette between his lips, eyes sharp.
She handed him the coins without a word.
He counted them. His smile vanished.
"…This is short," he said flatly. "At least five matchboxes worth. And the bag's empty."
Lisette's lips trembled. "I– I tried… but—"
"But what?" His tone stayed calm, almost curious. "Yesterday, you were a good girl. What happened today?"
She swallowed hard. Her eyes dropped to the floor as she whispered the truth.
Silence. Then, her uncle slowly shook his head.
He raised his hand.
Lisette flinched, eyes squeezing shut—
—but instead of pain, a rough pat landed on her head.
She couldn't believe it… No way—how?
She was a BAD GIRL today. She deserved punishment.
Why was he being kind?
Then she heard it—a little girl's voice from behind the door.
"Papa?"
Her uncle turned his head. "I'm here," he answered, softer now.
The small girl peeked in, smiling. "Hi, Lisette!"
Lisette forced a weak smile. "Hi…"
"Go wait for me, sweetheart," her uncle said gently.
The girl nodded and left.
As soon as she was gone, his tone dropped back to normal. "You're lucky my daughter came in. Don't repeat this tomorrow."
Lisette nodded silently.
Her uncle left after that, and the house grew quiet.
Lisette stood alone in the living room. The old vase was gone, and so were the knitting tools her grandmother once used—but she didn't mind.
No bread today. Her stomach twisted a little, but she smiled faintly anyway.
It was fine. More than fine.
He hadn't hit her. He'd even patted her head.
He was so merciful… such a kind man. Even though she had been a BAD GIRL today, he hadn't punished her.
"Such… a nice man," she whispered to herself, voice trembling.
...
Days passed, one after another.
Lisette sold her matches just like before—sometimes all of them, sometimes half, sometimes just enough to make him smile. Each time he smiled, her heart felt lighter.
Each time she received her small loaf of bread, she whispered a quiet thank you in her head.
Still hungry. Still tired. But she couldn't complain.
He was a nice man—he gave her food and water, after all.
On one evening, when she returned home, something was different. Her uncle's usual smile wasn't there. Instead, there was a strange look in his eyes—disgust, sharp and cold.
"Take a bath tonight," he said flatly.
She wanted to tell him she didn't know how, but he never gave her the chance. He was gone before the words could leave her lips.
Lisette stood there, staring at the empty bucket and the cold water inside.
'You have to heat it… right?' she thought, tilting her head in confusion. But how? No one had ever shown her.
She glanced toward the neighbor's door—the kind lady who sometimes smiled at her when passing by.
Maybe… maybe she would know.
So, clutching her small towel, Lisette knocked softly.
The door opened, and the woman's face lit up with warmth. "Oh, Lisette! What brings you here, dear?"
Lisette looked down, fidgeting. "I… I was told to take a bath. But… I don't know how to make the water warm."
The woman's expression softened instantly. "Oh, sweetheart… come in, come in."
She showed Lisette how to heat the water, how to mix it just right so it wasn't too hot or too cold. Then she helped her wash up properly, humming softly all the while.
Afterward, she even offered a small plate of warm food.
Lisette's stomach growled the moment she smelled it.
"T-thank you, aunty," she whispered, her voice trembling just a little.
The woman smiled kindly. "You're very welcome, dear."
Lisette smiled back—no tears, of course.
GOOD GIRLS didn't cry.
Oh, how Lisette wished she could stay with aunty forever. The warmth of her home, the smell of cooked food, the soft way she spoke—everything there felt safe.
But that wasn't her place, was it?
She wasn't meant to bother aunty again. GOOD GIRLS didn't trouble kind people. GOOD GIRLS didn't ask for more than they were given.
So, she went back home quietly that night.
And time… time just slipped by after that.
Days melted into each other. Every morning, her uncle would hand her the bag of matches. Every evening, she'd return with what little money she made and get her loaf of bread.
It became routine—sell, eat, sleep, repeat.
The cold bit at her fingers, her feet ached, but she didn't complain.
After all, GOOD GIRLS didn't complain.
...
On that day, Lisette went to her usual corner, the one near the bakery where the warm scent of bread made the cold a little easier to bear.
She called out softly, her voice practiced now, steady in tone.
Three weeks—it had already been that long since she started selling. The people passing by were starting to recognize her; some even nodded faintly when they saw her.
The angry woman from the first day hadn't appeared again, and that was a relief.
Every week, Lisette made sure to find the policeman and pay him what he asked for. Ten bronze coins, never less. And her uncle… he never mentioned it.
He didn't ask, didn't scold, didn't hit her for losing that money.
At first, Lisette thought it was strange—surprising, even—but she quickly corrected herself. No, no, that was the wrong way to think.
Her uncle wasn't cruel; he was kind.
A nice man who understood things better than she did.
Yes… that was all there was to it.
It had nothing to do with the fact that she sold almost all her matchboxes each day while the other three kids rarely sold even half.
It had nothing to do with her being the one who brought home more coins.
No, her uncle's kindness wasn't because of that.
It was simply because he was a good man—
and she, she just had to keep being a GOOD GIRL.
Today was just like any other day—or at least, it started that way.
Lisette stood at her usual spot, her small hands clutching the bag at her side as she called out softly, "Cheap kibrit! Cheap kibrit for sale!"
Her voice had found a rhythm by now, a melody shaped by routine and the cold air.
But then—a young man came and set up a small stall right beside her.
He placed a neat wooden box on the ground, laid out rows of matchboxes, and hung a little sign that read "Kibrit — Cheaper and Safer!"
Lisette blinked.
That… was strange.
Wasn't this her spot? Why was he here? And he sold kibrit too?
She didn't say anything. GOOD GIRLS didn't make trouble.
She just shuffled a little to the side and kept calling out, quieter this time, hoping no one would think she was being rude.
The day went on, and she managed to sell half her bag—but she noticed something.
The faces she'd grown used to, the ones who usually bought from her, stopped at the young man's stall instead. Some of them smiled at him.
Even the people who used to glance at her like she was a BAD GIRL bought from him.
Not all of them, no. But enough for her to notice.
Lisette looked down at her matchboxes, all wrapped the same way they always were, and whispered quietly to herself, "Did… I do something wrong again?"
...
She returned home and got her loaf of bread from her dear, kind uncle.
The next day, the same thing happened — only worse.
She barely managed to sell half her bag.
This… this wasn't good, was it now?
That shop — it was ruining things for her. How could that man just come and take away her customers like that?
He was a BAD BOY for doing that. And BAD BOYS, just like BAD GIRLS, had to be punished, right?
But… how could she punish him?
Hmm… well… there was one thing she could do.
But… no. Lisette wasn't like that. She wouldn't.
She was a GOOD GIRL.
She wouldn't do that to him.
Never.
The days went on, and it became harder and harder for Lisette to sell even half her bag of matchboxes...
If this continued, the day would come when she couldn't fulfill her dear uncle's orders.
And then… she'd be a BAD GIRL.
And BAD GIRLS got punished.
But Lisette didn't want to be punished.
So… even though she didn't want to do this, she had to.
She sat on her small bed late that night, hugging her knees close to her chest, whispering to herself over and over, "It's okay… it's okay… Lisette will just be a GOOD GIRL tomorrow… a really good girl…"
And when the candlelight flickered out, she nodded to herself in the dark.
Tomorrow, she'd do just that.
Once morning came, Lisette went out like usual, her little bag of matchboxes clutched tight in her hands.
But instead of calling out for cheap Kibrit like she always did, she kept walking. Step after step, through the frost-bitten street, until she found him — the policeman.
He was standing by the corner, his black suit making him look colder than the morning air itself.
Lisette took a shaky breath and walked up to him.
"Um… Mister Policeman," she said softly, "there's a man selling Kibrit too… just beside where I sell mine…"
The policeman glanced down at her, his face unreadable. "So?" he said flatly. "Leave him be."
Lisette hesitated... But, she still wondered if the young man had a permit or not.
She just happened to wonder that out loud.
The policeman paused, then chuckled—a low, cruel sound.
He spat on the ground beside her feet, the sound sharp in the cold morning air.
"Scum," he muttered, his tone laced with disgust.
He looked at her for a second, his gaze cold and heavy—then his lip twitched. "Get lost, brat," he said flatly. "Before you ruin my mood even more."
Lisette froze for a moment, eyes wide and glassy, before quickly nodding. "Y-Yes, Mister Policeman."
She hurried away, her little shoes tapping weakly against the cobblestones.
But as she turned the corner and slipped back into the busy street, something inside her twisted.
Why… why did he say that?
Why did the policeman look at her like that?
Wasn't the young man supposed to be the BAD BOY?
So why… why did he look at her like she was the BAD ONE instead?
It didn't make sense.
Not at all.
But that was that.
Oh well — that had been her last trump card.
...
Lisette did her best that day — she really did.
By noon, half the bag was gone, her voice hoarse from calling out to the few who'd listen. But instead of returning home, she took a chance.
A different street might bring better luck, she thought.
It didn't.
The second policeman caught her before she'd even taken her place. His words were sharp, his hand sharper — a slap that burned across her cheek.
She froze.
She couldn't afford to pay two policemen. Not today. Not ever.
So she stood there for a while, lost and small in the crowd, before turning back.
There wasn't much else to do.
When she reached home, she hoped—no, she believed—her dear uncle would understand. She'd tell him about the BAD BOY who set up shop, how unfair it all was.
Maybe he'd finally help her.
Maybe.
But that night, her dear uncle was angry.
Even when she handed him the coins she'd earned, he didn't give her a loaf of bread. Instead, he kicked her. Not hard, of course—no, never hard. Just gently.
Because he was her dear uncle, after all.
She only heard him shouting—something about filthy gangsters, scum, demanding more money from him.
She didn't understand what any of that meant.
All she could do was clutch her stomach, where the pain still throbbed.
The next few days were harder.
Her dear uncle said they now had to sell two-thirds instead of just half.
She tried. She really did. But she couldn't.
So she was punished.
For two days, she was punished. And on the third…
Well, on the third day, her dear uncle wasn't gentle anymore.
His final "gentle" fist sent her into sleep.
When she woke much later, everything felt heavy.
Her left eye hurt—no, burned. She couldn't open it no matter how hard she tried. When she finally found the courage to stand before the cracked mirror, she saw it.
A swollen, darkened eye—shut tight.
Ah… there it was.
So that girl… she hadn't fallen after all.
It was her uncle.
"Hah… Haha…" Lisette laughed softly.
Then louder. "It's funny. Silly Lisette ignored the truth even when it was right there. Hahaha! SiLLy LIsettE—sUcH A sILLy GirL!"
And that night, in the little dark corner of her room, she laughed and laughed—because what else could a silly girl do?
The next morning, the other kids saw her black eye.
They said nothing.
They didn't even look at her again.
Haha… just like she did that day.
Ah, Lisette, you're such a silly little girl. It's so funny, honestly.
Her dear uncle handed each of the children their small bags of matchboxes. His voice was calm, even kind.
When it came to her, though, he paused.
He smiled.
But Lisette… she couldn't find any warmth in that smile.
"If you don't sell at least half today," he said softly, "then it's better you don't come back home."
He tilted his head, still smiling. "Because I might just kill you tonight."
With that, he left.
Lisette stood there for a long moment, her small hands trembling in the cold. She stared at them — pale, stiff, almost not her own — and then… she laughed.
A small sound at first. Then louder. Then louder still.
She laughed and laughed until her chest hurt, until her voice cracked. The people crossing the street slowed their steps, gave her brief, uneasy glances… and then moved on.
No one approached.
...
Lisette stood on the same cobblestone street as always, her small voice echoing through the morning chill.
"Cheap kibrit for sale!"
The familiar rhythm steadied her shaking hands.
People passed by, their boots crunching against the frost. Some faces she recognized — men and women who'd smiled at her before, who sometimes even greeted her kindly.
A few still returned her gaze, hesitated, and offered her a faint smile before moving closer.
For a moment, she thought things might go well today.
But then—something changed.
The first customer, a plump woman wrapped in fur, stopped halfway through her approach. Her eyes flicked to Lisette's face... and froze.
Her lips parted slightly, trembling, before she looked away and hurried across the street.
Lisette tilted her head in confusion.
"Huh?"
Then it happened again. And again.
Every familiar face twisted in the same way—surprise, discomfort… fear.
They averted their eyes, turned away, or crossed the street entirely. Others, those who once smiled at her, now bought from the young man's stall instead, pretending not to notice the little girl standing in the cold with her bag of matches.
Lisette blinked, unsure what was wrong.
The street hadn't changed. She hadn't changed either... right?
That was strange, wasn't it? Really strange.
But… Lisette understood.
Of course she did.
It must've been because she looked so ugly today—with that swollen, blackened eye that refused to open no matter how many times she tried.
Who would want to buy anything from someone like her?
From a BAD GIRL like her?
She nodded softly to herself, as if confirming the logic of it all.
Yes, yes, it made perfect sense.
The hours crawled by.
The light shifted from pale morning to dull afternoon gray, and the snow started falling again—quiet, gentle, uncaring.
Usually by this time she would've sold a few matchboxes, maybe even half the bag if she was lucky.
But today… not even one.
Her little fingers tightened around the wooden box. The ache in her stomach came and went like a slow tide, but she ignored it.
She thought of asking—just once—why her usual customers had passed her by without a word. But that would be rude, wouldn't it? That would bother them.
And GOOD GIRLS didn't bother others.
She was already a BAD GIRL for having such an ugly bruise, for making people look away. She couldn't make things worse.
No, no… she had to be quiet, stand still, and wait for someone kind enough to buy from her.
Even if no one ever did.
So, she kept calling.
Again and again, her small voice echoed through the street—
"Cheap kibrit for sale! Please… cheap kibrit!"
Each time softer than before, swallowed by the wind.
The snow began to fall heavier, little flakes clinging to her hair and melting against her pale cheeks. The cold bit at her fingers until they stung red and numb.
She pulled her hood over her head—the one with the little ring of white fur—but it didn't help much. The wind still found her, curling through every tear and hole in her old brown coat.
Her hands shook so badly she had to hide them in her pockets every few minutes, pressing her frozen fingers against the cloth for even a moment's warmth.
But still, she called out. Again and again.
No one stopped.
Then—a couple she knew. They'd bought from her before, even smiled once or twice. Lisette's heart leapt. She waved timidly, her lips trembling.
"P–please… would you like some cheap kibrit today?" she asked, voice small and hopeful.
The woman slowed, her eyes softening.
For a moment, there was warmth there—something Lisette hadn't seen in so long. The woman took a half-step forward, but her husband's hand caught her arm.
"Don't," he murmured, low but firm.
"Look at her. That eye—she must be mixed up with the gangs. Don't get involved. It'll only bring us trouble."
Lisette froze.
The woman hesitated, her lips parting as if to say something—but then she turned away, her expression folding into guilt before the snow swallowed her figure completely.
And just like that, Lisette was alone again, her voice lost to the cold air, her frozen fingers clutching the box that no one wanted.
Ah, now it made sense… of course.
Haha… they thought Lisette was involved with gangs?
Because of her black eye? How funny. How silly, really. See what being a BAD GIRL did to someone? It made everyone assume the worst without even asking.
Oh well. That was what she got, wasn't it? That was what BAD GIRLS deserved.
The day dragged on, the light fading into a dull, cold orange that bled across the roofs and snow.
The young man packed up his little stall and left early, his shadow disappearing down the corner while Lisette still stood there, clutching the half-empty bag with stiff, aching fingers.
By the time evening came, the street was quiet.
The chatter, the footsteps, the laughter—all gone. Only the faint whistle of wind and the crunch of snow under passing carts remained.
Lisette stood there, her breath misting in front of her lips, the skin of her hands red and raw.
Just one person had stopped for her today.
An old woman—gentle eyes, soft hands—who pressed three bronze coins into her palm for a single box of matches.
Lisette had smiled then. A small, trembling smile that barely reached her eyes.
One matchbox sold. That was all.
Lisette's body trembled, her fingers stiff from the biting cold.
She couldn't take it anymore.
Her stomach ached, her lips were cracked, and the thin layer of her coat felt like paper against the winter wind.
Then—an idea.
What if she used one match? Just one.
It wouldn't make much of a difference, right?
A single flame to keep her alive a little longer.
Besides, she was already a bad girl in everyone's eyes, wasn't she?
What did it matter now?
Her hand shook as she pulled a match from the tiny box.
She stared at it for a moment, her breath fogging in the air.
Then—strike.
Once.
Twice.
Fsshh—
A spark.
Then, flame.
Ah… warmth.
It spread through her fingers, golden and soft, like a small piece of the sun trapped between her palms.
For a fleeting second, the cold vanished.
She could almost imagine herself in another life—one where she was safe, where someone waited for her, where the snow didn't bite.
And then, the flame died.
The darkness crept back in.
Lisette blinked—and it was as if she'd woken from a dream.
She was still on that same frozen street. Evening had settled in, the shops had long closed, and her matchboxes were still full.
She hadn't sold a thing.
She couldn't go home. Not like this. Her uncle's voice echoed in her head, low and venomous:
"If you come back empty-handed again… don't bother coming back at all. If you do, I might just kill you."
A tremor ran through her—not from the cold this time, but from fear.
Time slipped by in silence.
Lisette stared at the small box in her hands — the one thing standing between her and the freezing dark. She shouldn't… she really shouldn't.
But the memory of that brief warmth, that gentle flicker of comfort, was too much to ignore.
She struck another match.
Fsshh— A flare of orange, a heartbeat of heat.
Then darkness.
She tried again. Another spark, another brief illusion of life — gone.
Then another.
And another.
And another.
By the time she realized it, the entire box was empty.
Her fingers were raw from the friction, her breath shallow, her body trembling uncontrollably.
She looked down at the blackened sticks in her lap, their faint smoke curling upward like ghosts of warmth that had already left her behind.
The streets were silent now.
The night had fully claimed the city, and the snow was falling heavier, soft and merciless.
Lisette stumbled toward a narrow alleyway between two old buildings, her legs barely carrying her. She huddled there, clutching her matchboxes like a treasure she couldn't bear to lose.
Her teeth chattered. Her shoulders shook.
She didn't dare return home.
She could already hear his voice again — sharp, cruel, waiting.
So she lit another match.
And another.
And another…
Each flame shorter than the last, each one dimmer, but still — for those fleeting moments — she felt alive.
Hours slipped by — or maybe it was decades, for little Lisette couldn't tell anymore.
The hunger that gnawed at her stomach had gone quiet. The ache in her fingers, the cold biting at her cheeks — all of it faded beneath the fragile glow of the matches.
Nothing else mattered now.
Not the streets.
Not the snow.
Not even the silence that had swallowed the city whole.
Only the warmth.
Only the fire.
Only that gentle, trembling light that danced at her fingertips and made her believe, even for a heartbeat, that everything was okay.
The matches had become her world — her home, her hope, her only friend left in the cold.
And then… it happened.
The last match burned out.
She stared at the blackened stick in her hand, the faint curl of smoke dissolving into the air. That was it — no more fire, no more warmth, no more light.
For a moment, she thought she should cry. Or scream. Or run. But she didn't.
Instead, she laughed — a small, broken sound that vanished into the wind.
She didn't care that she'd been a really, really bad girl for using them all.
Didn't care that her dear uncle would be furious — maybe even worse.
Didn't care about hunger, or cold, or tomorrow.
The fire was gone, and that was all that mattered.
Snowflakes drifted down around her, landing gently on her lashes and the corners of her lips. She tilted her head up, smiling faintly at the black sky above — soft, endless, and far away.
Haha… Lisette, poor silly girl — you dragged this upon yourself.
What did Grandmother always say?
Not to go to your uncle, because he was a TERRIBLE MAN WHO DESERVED TO DIE!
DEATH TO HIM! DEATH TO HIM!
SHE'D KILL HIM A THOUSAND TIMES — NO, MORE THAN THAT!
Lisette didn't know any number bigger than a thousand, but she wasn't stupid. There were infinite numbers, weren't there?
So… SHE'D KILL HIM INFINITE TIMES THEN.
FOREVER AND EVER.
Oh well. She was a BAD GIRL for bringing him into her life, and now… now she deserved this.
So… what now? Was she just going to die here, in the snow?
The cold would do it, that was for sure.
Maybe she should knock on some doors — find someone kind enough to let her in, even for a single night. There had to be people like that, right?
There were always kind people somewhere.
After all, even today, when everyone else turned their faces away, that old grandma still bought one matchbox from her. There was kindness in the world.
But… why bother?
Lisette didn't want to trouble anyone with her problems. She didn't deserve their help. No, this was her fault. She got herself into this situation, didn't she?
No, no help for silly, stupid, idiOt Lisette.
No and no.
So then… what?
Well, that meant death, right?
Yup. Death for her it was.
Hmm… so she would just wait for it to happen, huh? How interesting. There wasn't much left to feel anyway. Her fingers had gone stiff long ago — frozen beyond touch.
She tried brushing them against her legs, but… nothing. No sensation, no warmth.
Haha… it was like she didn't even have hands anymore.
So silly of Lisette… to lose her touch like that.
Snow drifted down like silent ash, piling softly around her small frame.
Her lips trembled, but not from the cold anymore — from something crawling beneath her skin.
She should really just give up, right?
A voice whispered, almost tenderly.
Yeah, listen to me, little child. Just give up. It's not worth it to live.
What do you even have to live for?
Lisette blinked slowly, the world spinning between white and black.
Huh…?
That… wasn't my voice, was it?
Listen to my sweet voice as it guides you, it said again, closer now, brushing her ear like breath.
To that sweet release of death. It's nice, right?
She stared into the snow before her, trying to see where the voice came from, but there was nothing there — only the falling flakes, the faint glow of the streetlamps, and the sound of her own heartbeat echoing in her skull.
"Hahaha…" she laughed weakly, her voice trembling.
Silly Lisette, so silly of her. Go on, strange voice. Tell silly little Lisette more.
Oh, I will then, the voice replied, soft yet deep, curling through the air like smoke.
See, there is no point in living anymore for you. Your story's run its end already. You're cold, you're hungry, and you're a BAD GIRL. And well…
The snow fell heavier now. Her breath formed ghosts in the air.
C'mon now, what do BAD GIRLS deserve? Would you kindly tell me that?
Lisette's shoulders shook.
A giggle slipped through her cracked lips.
Haha… of course I know the answer, strange voice mister.
She looked down at her trembling hands. It's punishment.
Yes yes, you're right little Lisette, and what sort of punishment fits your current situation?
Death!
Oho, you're not so silly after all, are you? You're actually smart for your age.
Hehe, thank you strange voice mister, I'm happy I can be at least a little useful to you.
Oh, such a sweet child, but do you know how you can help me even more?
Hmm, how?
Well, by dying.
Oh?
Yes yes, so, would you be a GOOD GIRL one final time, and help me?
Little Lisette didn't even have to think about it, she immediately nodded. She was dying either way, so why not die as a GOOD GIRL?
"Don't."
Huh… that wasn't strange voice mister. That wasn't inside little Lisette's head at all.
She blinked slowly, her breath fogging in the frozen air.
The sound had come from ahead of her—from the alley's mouth.
She lifted her gaze, and there he was.
A man—or maybe something that looked like one—stood there, his form swallowed by darkness. His outline was faint, yet she could see the shape of shoulders, the faint hint of movement when he breathed.
Maybe it was just the shadows playing tricks on her, or maybe… maybe the night itself had decided to take shape and speak.
"Don't… what?" she asked, her voice cracked and frail, as though it were fighting through ice to escape her throat.
"Don't die yet," the man said, voice steady, low, and deep enough to feel rather than hear. A pause followed. Then he added, softer—almost kind.
"Don't give up."
Don't give up?
That felt strange to little Lisette... especially because the strange voice mister was getting a little angry now, saying strange, broken things.
For example, she heard him growl, Don't get involved, {███████ ███}... this is my prey, not yours. Pick someone else.
The man in real life — or at least, little Lisette thought he was real — stood there unmoving. He appeared not as flesh or person, but as a figure carved out of shadow itself.
Yet his voice… it carried weight, cold but certain, like a chain snapping in the dark.
He spoke replying to the strange voice mister, almost like he could hear him somehow, "I break chains. Her story leads to death. It's been told many times before. I will save her, and I will break that Chain of Death. So get lost, { ██████████ ███}."
The strange voice mister didn't like that.
Soon enough, he ignored the shadowy man and started whispering again, telling little Lisette to just give up, to be a good girl and die already.
Lisette truly wanted to do as he said.
After all, she had already promised him as much…
But the shadowy man in front of her—he reached out his hand.
His voice was calm yet firm, almost warm against the cold whispers surrounding her.
"Take my hand, and I will save you. I will break your Chain of Death. You won't die anymore. Your story will finally be set free, and you'll be able to move on, to grow up. Just take my hand."
Little Lisette hesitated.
She had promised strange voice mister, but... she… did she want to die?
When she thought of her grandmother, her parents, her dream of dancing in a ballroom and being asked by a prince—she realized she didn't really want to die.
Yes, there was her uncle… but...
She had to ask.
Using the last bit of strength left in her voice, she whispered, barely audible, "Can... can you take me... out of here?"
The shadowy man was silent for a moment. Then he nodded slowly.
"I can take you out of this Fragment, yes."
He reached out his hand again toward her.
"But I'll only save you if you take my hand. The choice is yours. Take it, or leave it."
The strange voice mister tried and tried, whispering that it wasn't worth it, that she should just give up already.
But... just for once, little Lisette didn't care about being a GOOD GIRL or a BAD GIRL anymore.
Just for once, she wanted to do what she wanted.
Could she do that?
The shadowy man nodded, almost like he could read her thoughts—like he understood her without needing words.
And that was all she needed.
The strange voice mister kept trying, but his words didn't reach her anymore.
Little Lisette reached out her small, trembling hand toward the shadowy man—
—and she took it.
In that exact moment, she heard it—clink.
A chain breaking.
Her Chain of Death.
A black, rotten, viny chain snapped and fell away, vanishing into the darkness like smoke.
The shadowy man helped her up, his grip steady and strangely gentle.
From the void beside him, he produced a single match.
Lisette blinked.
A match?
That couldn't be real... could it?
But when he placed it in her hand—she felt it.
Wait.
She could feel again?
The cold, the pain, the fear—all still there, but different.
Lighter.
None of it made sense, but maybe it didn't have to anymore.
The shadowy man brought his hand close to the match and blew softly.
And somehow... that ignited it.
A warm flame bloomed to life, gentle and golden.
The alley was no longer so dark.
Lisette stared at it, her eyes wide, the flickering light dancing on her cheeks.
Warm...
Little Lisette finally felt warm again.
—End of Story.