Years passed. Lyra grew older, never regretting her choice, though the price was heavy. Pip, too, aged along with her, his once-complaining voice softening.
One afternoon, near the end of her life, Lyra sat with children at her knee. They asked her why their birthdays carried no magic anymore.
She smiled gently. "They still do. But the magic is different now. It is the people who love you, gathering to celebrate you. It is laughter, and cake, and the promise that another year lies ahead. That is a truer magic than bending the world."
The children seemed unconvinced, but they listened all the same.
And when Lyra died, the stars shone bright. No fireflies of wishes danced above her grave. Only honest tears fell, and honest songs were sung. In the silence, Elaria discovered her freedom.
Generations later, tales of the wishing days hardened into myths. People spoke of a reckless era when desire itself shaped existence, a dangerous paradise. Few believed it had been literal.
But in the archives kept by scholars, a record survived: the name of Lyra, called The Last Wishmaker.
And beside her name was a single proverb, whispered down the centuries
"The worth of a life is not in what you can bend the world to give you, but in what you give the world when it bends against you."
The END
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