There are people who leave their fingerprints on the world in ways that time can’t erase. Dahlton did it through music. It wasn’t just something he played—it was something that lived inside him. A rhythm, a pulse, a language that didn’t need words. His hands knew their way across strings, his soul found melody in places others might have missed. Music was where he felt most at home, where he could take the weight of the world and turn it into something beautiful.

But beyond the music, beyond the talent that set him apart, Dahlton was his mother’s son. And if she had just one more moment, just one more chance to reach through the space where he should still be, she knows exactly what she would say.

"I would tell my son just how proud of him I was."

Proud of his music. Proud of the way he made people feel. Proud of the person he was, the heart he carried, the love he gave. Proud in a way that words will never quite be able to hold.

There is an emptiness now where his sound should be—where his laughter, his presence, his steady hum of existence once filled the spaces between moments. But love like this doesn’t end. It doesn’t disappear into silence. It lingers, plays on like the last notes of a favorite song, refusing to fade.

"You are very loved and missed."

And you always will be.