The boy’s room was always silent. The kind of silence that made even the ticking of the clock sound too loud.

He sat on his bed, staring at the blank wall.

Most days were like this—lonely and empty.

He had no real friends, only faces that came and went.

One evening, as the room grew darker, the wall in front of him began to change.

The boy’s eyes widened. At first he was afraid, but curiosity pulled him closer.

When he looked through the glass, he saw another world.

People were dancing, hugging, smiling, dancing, hugging, smiling, as if every moment was a festival.

Then, the glass opened like a door. The boy stepped through.

The people cheered, welcomed him, and pulled him into their joy.

For the first time in his life, he felt he belonged.

That night, when he returned to his quiet room, he could still hear the echoes of music in his head.

He smiled to himself before falling asleep.

From then on, he went back every day.

One day, he told a friend about it.

The friend followed, still smiling in disbelief.

But when the glass appeared and the world opened up, the smile vanished.

Together, they entered.

Together, they were welcomed.

And so, they stayed.

But things began to change.

The music stopped.

The people who once welcomed them only stared with empty eyes.

The lights went out.

The boys looked at each other in fear.

Then they felt their bodies shrinking, twisting.

Their skin hardened into wood.

Their arms and legs turned into thin sticks.

They screamed, but their voices were small and sharp, like sparks.

They were no longer boys. They were matchsticks.

In the darkness, they were pressed tightly together in a matchbox.

No space, no air, only silence.

Then they heard it—the sound of the box sliding open.

A rough hand reached in.

A matchstick was pulled out.