Sitting in an alley, shivering & cold, was a little Rose.
The frost gave her a pale cover, the single red rose in her pale hands gave a splash of color, and the melancholy in her eyes gave a sense of knowing this cold and bitter place.
Like all rich girls growing up, Rose had heard the story of the Match Girl but, since Daddy would never let that happen, she slept through the cold hard days of England warm & unafraid.
Daddy, a banker, was a widower and lonely. He took in a wife that was, on her best days, abusive. She hit Rose & Daddy. She was cruel.
Finally, when Daddy was sent “away,” Rose couldn’t take it. She ran away. It was a hot July, and she took her lightest summer dress, and remembering the Match Girl, several matches, although she hoped she’d be at Auntie Flor’s sooner than the cold. Having long exchanged matches for food, she slept like winter, long and bitter. When Auntie Flor found her in the morning, the rose would be bright red, like her hot blood had flowed into it, just before she died.