The Matchbox on the Roof — Under the peppermint-cold stars, Gus patted his coat pocket for the tiny brass matchbox he always carried before the last chimney. Read the full story →
Under the peppermint-cold stars, Gus patted his coat pocket for the tiny brass matchbox he always carried before the last chimney. It held no matches, only one folded scrap from his first Christmas route: Santa’s wink drawn in blue pencil. Without it, Gus’s boots felt wrong on the roof tiles.
He left the warm sleigh blanket and followed a bright clink across the ridge. Snow squeaked. Icicles ticked. At the tallest chimney, the matchbox sat on the frosty bricks, but opening it cost him the last sugared almond in his mitten; a rooftop crow had been guarding it like a royal jewel. “Fair trade,” Gus whispered.
Inside the box, the scrap had changed. Blue pencil marks now formed tiny arrows toward every dark window in the village. Gus grinned so hard his beard crinkled, then tucked the box near Santa’s sack and tapped the chimney twice. One by one, candle flames bloomed below, passing the secret from house to house. Next time you spot those stars above his hat, you may know where the shared glow began: under the peppermint-cold stars.
