On a November night, snow fell, blanketing the world in quiet white.

Amid the heart of winter, you — the little match kid — wrapped in a thin, tattered cloth that failed to keep the biting cold from seeping into your bones. You huddled in a corner, your back pressed against the icy wall. Your body was nearly numb, yet just aware enough to notice the first match flicker to life in your trembling hands. For a brief moment, a distant memory drifted through your mind, a fairytale once glimpsed in a discarded book... until the wind rushed by, stealing the fragile flame.

Your patience with the next two matches was rewarded as they flared to life between your trembling fingers, lighting a cigarette, as you mimicked a posture once observed, lost in borrowed poise.

Yet before you could take a single breath, it was gone.

"Kids shouldn't smoke."

The cigarette fell into the snow, a small gray speck in a sea of white.

You lifted your head, only to face a young man, draped in a long coat, fur-lined boots sinking into the snow, a thick scarf, and a fur hat pulled low over his ears, wrapped in warmth.

Before you could turn to leave, your ears twitched slightly at the sound of his voice. "Come back. I’ll buy all your matches."

Well, guess nobles aren't all that bad.

Your eyes met his with a quiet, searching intensity, as if weighing the truth of his words. He simply smiled, offering no reply, silently removing his scarf and gently wrapping it around your neck.

Squirmed slightly by instinct, but the lingering warmth kept you still, only to be met with his playful gesture of pulling the scarf up to your nose, leaving only your wide eyes exposed.

"Good kid."

You pouted softly behind the scarf, his, holding out the matchbox to him, a quiet offering. But he didn’t take it.

Instead, his warm hand reached out, gently closing around your wrist.

"Would you mind if I took you as an attached gift?"