I was born and raised to perform a single action, first and final: grant humans wishes.

In my early days, drifting in the blackness, I asked my mother, "But why humans?"

She said it is because humans like making wishes, and they are the only living things for millions of miles who even understand the concept of a "wish." Meteors are born, live, grant wishes, and then die. If not for wishes, what would we have?

Just dust, I suspect. And endless, formless blackness.

The humans live on Earth, or Terra, or Gaea—however one may call it.

In the beginning we stay with our mother, stuck to her, stuck with each other, and then each of us leaves, shooting out into the great unknown with only one goal in mind.

Some meteors survive their trips to Earth, but many do not. It depends on one's size and how deeply you penetrate the atmosphere, as those who've returned have said. Not that there is much of a purpose in surviving the voyage.

I am a small meteor when compared to most of my siblings, but that is okay.

All I need is enough time to grant even a single wish. The worst fate of all would be to die before granting any wishes. It is not the dying itself which would be most terrible, but rather dying without being able to fulfill one's sole duty.

I was made to be what the humans often call a "shooting star."

My voyage to becoming one is almost over.

I can see Earth now. It is getting bigger, but also moving very fast.

I know I am reaching the end of my pilgrimage. If I can just—

Yes! I think I can get within reach of the atmosphere.

This side of Earth is dark, and this darkness is how I know I'm getting near my destination.

I can feel myself entering it, that first touch of thinnest air.

The top layer of the atmosphere starts to peel at my skin. At first it is a ticklish sensation, something utterly harmless, yet I see the very outer layer of my skin being torn off in small chunks by this all-consuming force.

It's starting to hurt now, the deeper into the planet I go, in what seems like hours but more likely seconds.

It hurts. It's ripping at my skin, and I see myself bleeding. 

I'm bleeding. 

I'm bleeding dust all around me.

[i]—please stop hurting me please—[/i]

I start screaming. 

It is a soundless scream, as not even I can hear it.

Instead it seems to be the atmosphere that is screaming, howling, crying in a way that I'm sure does not resemble any living thing. It simply [i]can't.[/i] Earth itself must be howling at me as it kills me.

The thickening air rips at my flesh, and I feel like my insides are threatening to spill out into the darkness.

No. [i]No![/i] I cannot die yet. I must keep myself together.

Just a little longer...

[i]...wait...[/i]

I start to hear something.

Something different, like someone talking. Not just one person, but many in unison—so many that at first I can't even tell what each of them is saying. Are these [i]human[/i] voices? Is this what they sound like? They can't be talking, all the way down there, for I am not physically able to hear them.

No, they must be [i]thinking[/i] these things!

Our minds are telepathically connected in this moment, and I hear variations of the same two words amidst all the voices:

[i]"I wish..."[/i]

Yes! I've made it.

The pain grows, but no matter; I've finally done it.

Glowing, burning up, I must be a beautiful sight as I pass overhead in the nighttime sky.

I can hear all these emotions in their voices, this wonderful ocean of sounds within my being. So many people wanting so many things. Yet it occurs to me now, in my time of dying, that I can't possibly grant all these wishes.

A lot of them wish for world peace. Or to solve world hunger. There are a few who wish their parents would get back together. Others wish for more money, or more social status, or better looks, or a nice car.

I cannot grant even [i]half[/i] of these wishes, as some would cancel out others.

This is too much to take in, and I'm losing more of myself with each passing second.

[i]—death is coming—[/i]

I only have enough time to grant one wi—