Dwain Northey (Gen X)

It was Christmas Eve, 2025, and the city glowed the way it always did—towering LED screens looping holiday ads, drones blinking red and green above traffic, and storefront windows promising joy, luxury, and limited-time offers. Snow fell softly, just enough to look festive on camera, not enough to slow anyone down.

On the corner outside a closed pharmacy sat a little girl in a too-thin hoodie, her sneakers held together with duct tape. Her phone—three generations out of date, screen cracked like a spiderweb—had died hours ago. No data. No battery. No way to call anyone who might care.

She wasn’t selling matches. No one needed matches anymore.

She was selling nothing—which is what happens when you’re too young to work, too poor to shop, and too invisible to matter.

People hurried past her, eyes locked on smartwatches and notifications. A man livestreamed himself handing a coffee to a friend while stepping around her. A woman posted #Blessed as she nearly tripped over the girl’s backpack. Somewhere nearby, a church hosted a candlelight service sponsored by a telecom company.

The girl pulled a single match from her pocket. She didn’t really know why she still had them—maybe they’d been her mother’s. Maybe they were just something small she hadn’t lost yet.

She struck it.

In the flicker, she saw warmth: a tiny apartment with the heat actually on, a table with food that didn’t come from a convenience store, hands reaching for hers without checking a phone first. The flame went out.

She struck another.

Now she saw a Christmas tree—not perfect, but real. No filters. No ads. Just lights and ornaments made by someone who cared. For a moment, she felt safe. The match burned down to her fingers and disappeared.

She struck a third.

This time, she saw her grandmother—the one person who had ever told her she mattered. Her grandmother didn’t say work harder or be grateful or everything happens for a reason. She just opened her arms.

The girl struck all the remaining matches at once, afraid of the dark, afraid of the cold, afraid of being alone again. In their brief, beautiful glow, she felt something close to peace.

By morning, the snow had covered her completely.

The news mentioned her for twelve seconds. A ticker scrolled beneath the anchor: “Tragic reminder of homelessness during the holidays.” Comments poured in—thoughts, prayers, and arguments about personal responsibility. A crowdfunding link went up, then was quickly forgotten when a celebrity scandal broke an hour later.

By noon, the sidewalk was cleared. The city moved on.

And somewhere deep in the data centers humming beneath the world, the lights stayed on, the ads kept playing, and Christmas continued—warm, bright, and just out of reach.