Lyra stood in the wings, the roar of the live audience a physical force, a wave of sound that vibrated through the floor. The heat of the stage lights spilled out, warming her face. It was her turn.
“And now,” the host’s voice boomed through the speakers, “the moment we’ve all been waiting for! She’s been on a journey that has captured the nation’s heart. A story of resilience, of strength, and of finding her voice against all odds. Please welcome, for her final performance… Lyra!”
The roar intensified. This was it.
She walked onto the stage. The light was blinding, the thousands of faces in the crowd a blur. She was dressed in a simple, elegant white gown that didn’t hide the gentle curve of her belly. Her gaze swept the audience until she found her anchor. Zara. Sitting in the third row, Zara gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod. It was enough.
The opening notes of the piano began, soft and clear.
Lyra took a breath, closed her eyes for a single beat, then opened them and looked directly into the lens of the main camera. She wasn’t singing to the people in the room. She was singing to the millions watching, to anyone who had ever felt lost.
She sang “My Name.”
Her voice soared, flawless and pure. It wasn’t a performance of anger or revenge. It was a performance of triumphant power, of quiet joy, of a promise being made to the future. It was a declaration of independence.
As the final, sustained note hung in the air, shimmering in the sudden, absolute silence of the auditorium, she placed both hands on her belly.
The audience was still for a heartbeat.
Then, the room erupted. It wasn’t just applause; it was a deafening, sustained standing ovation, a tidal wave of support that washed over her, a sound of pure, unadulterated victory. Her victory. Won entirely on her own terms.
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