one of my favourite stories, made flash.
But in the corner, at the cold hour of dawn, sat the poor girl, with rosy cheeks and with a smiling mouth, leaning against the wall - frozen to death on the last evening of the old year. Stiff and stark sat the child there with her matches, of which one bundle had been burnt. "She wanted to warm herself," people said. No one had the slightest suspicion of what beautiful things she had seen. No one even dreamed of the splendour in which, with her grandmother, she had entered on the
Hans Christian Anderson, The Little Match Girl.
via newgrounds
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