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She vanished just as the year ended. The village square was alive with cheers and fireworks, but no one noticed the shimmer in the air where Eira had stood moments before. Though the townsfolk celebrated with laughter and sparkling cider, a strange stillness seemed to descend upon the cobblestones she had left behind. To some, it felt as though a part of the magic woven into the air all year had gone with her. Eira had first arrived on the cold morning of January 1st, exactly a year earlier. Her appearance had been unassuming, though she carried with her a presence that was impossible to ignore. Wrapped in a silvery cloak that shimmered faintly in the winter sun, she stepped into the center of the bustling market square. Her voice was calm and quiet, yet it carried to everyone within earshot. “I’ll stay in this village until the last moment of the year,” she had said, her silver hair gleaming like frost. “I will heal, I will help, and I will mend. But at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve, I will leave. And to mark my departure, I will grant one true wish to the one who needs it most.” At first, the villagers were skeptical. Wishes were the stuff of fairy tales, whispered to children as they fell asleep. Who was this strange woman to promise such things? But Eira had simply smiled, as if she could hear their doubts, and walked to the edge of the village to set up her modest home—a small shop tucked between the woods and the fields. Her shop was unlike anything the villagers had ever seen. Jars of starlight lined the shelves, glowing faintly in the dim light. Bottles labeled with strange names—“Whispered Secrets,” “Bottled Courage,” “Midnight Dreams”—sat alongside bundles of dried herbs and vials of liquid that shimmered with colors no one could quite describe. Though curious, most avoided her at first. It wasn’t until the first snowfall that someone dared to approach. It was old Thaddeus, the village baker, who came knocking on her door. His arthritis had worsened that winter, and his hands—once so steady—could barely knead dough anymore. Eira had greeted him with a knowing smile, inviting him in without a word. She brewed him a tea from herbs he couldn’t name and told him to drink it every morning for seven days. By the end of the week, Thaddeus was kneading and shaping loaves as if he were a young man again. Word spread quickly after that. Soon, Eira’s shop was the busiest place in the village. Mothers brought their sick children, and farmers came with tales of ailing livestock. Travelers passing through stopped to marvel at the glowing jars and left with trinkets that seemed to make their burdens lighter. Though some still whispered that she was too peculiar, the village as a whole came to trust her. Yet, for all her kindness and skill, Eira remained an enigma. She never joined the villagers at their festivals, though she always sent small gifts—tiny pouches of shimmering powder that made lanterns glow brighter or sweets that tasted like sunlight. No one knew where she had come from or what she did in the quiet hours when her shop was closed. But her promise lingered in the back of everyone’s mind: one true wish, granted at the year’s end. As the months passed, the villagers began to wonder who among them would be chosen. Would it be the young farmer whose crops had failed? Or the widow who still wept for her lost husband? Perhaps it would be the baker, who had regained his hands but now wished for the strength to open a second shop. Eira never gave any indication of her choice. When asked, she would only smile and say, “The one who truly needs it will find me.” December arrived with heavy snows, blanketing the village in white. The festive season was marked with twinkling lights and laughter, but an undercurrent of anticipation buzzed through the air. By the time New Year’s Eve arrived, the entire village had gathered in the square, eager to see what would happen. Eira stood beneath the ancient oak tree at the center of the square, her silver cloak shimmering in the torchlight. The clock tower began to chime, marking the final hour of the year. Eira stood silently, her satchel resting at her feet. The villagers murmured among themselves, unsure of who would step forward. Minutes passed, and no one moved. Finally, as the clock began to strike midnight, a small voice broke through the crowd. “Please,” a young boy said, stepping into the firelight. His clothes were patched and threadbare, and in his hands, he held a wilted flower. “I wish for my mother to smile again.” The crowd fell silent. The boy’s mother stood at the edge of the square, her face pale and drawn with grief. She clutched a shawl around her shoulders, her eyes wide with shock as she stared at her son. Eira knelt before the boy, her silver eyes gleaming softly. “A pure wish,” she murmured, her voice carrying a strange, melodic cadence. She took the wilted flower from his hands and cupped it between her palms. When she opened them, the flower was vibrant and golden, glowing faintly in the darkness. She handed it back to the boy and turned to his mother. “This is for you,” she said. “Hold it close, and you will find the joy you thought was lost.” Tears streamed down the woman’s face as she reached out to take the flower. The glow seemed to spread from her hands, warming her skin and softening the lines of sorrow etched into her features. Slowly, a smile broke across her face—a smile the villagers hadn’t seen in years. The final chime echoed through the square, and Eira straightened. She looked out at the gathered villagers, her gaze lingering on each face as though memorizing them. “Your hearts are brighter than you know,” she said. “Keep them kind.” Before anyone could speak, a soft wind stirred the air. Eira’s form shimmered like a reflection on water, and then she was gone. All that remained was the faint scent of frost and a single silver feather drifting to the ground. The villagers stood in stunned silence for a long moment before the square erupted in whispers and exclamations. They searched for any trace of her, but Eira had vanished as completely as if she had never been there. Only the boy and his mother seemed calm, the golden flower cradled between them. In the years that followed, Eira’s story became a legend. Some claimed she was a spirit, bound to wander the earth, helping those in need. Others believed she was a sorceress, more powerful than any mage. But those who had known her best—those whose lives she had touched—held onto the belief that her magic lingered still. And on the quiet nights between years, when the world seemed to hold its breath, they swore they could feel her presence—a faint shimmer in the air, a whisper of frost, and the promise of a wish waiting to be granted.

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The Last Wish of the Silver Witch

Carrie

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Eira

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Carrie Good

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