Some people carry a light inside them, a quiet kind of warmth that makes the world feel softer, safer. David Weir had that light. A kind soul, steady and true, the kind of person who left a mark on the hearts of those who knew him.

When his mother asked to share a memory, she said that here are too many memories to choose just one, but if time could be rewound, there is a day that stands out—the day her son was born. The moment she first held that tiny life in her arms, something deeper than words passed between them. Love, fierce and unwavering, written into that first breath, that first touch, that first promise of forever.

His mother fought for him. She tried to save him. But fentanyl took over.

If she had just one more chance, one last moment to reach across the space between here and wherever he is now, she knows exactly what she would say. I’m sorry. I love you more. Because love never stops, not even when the person is gone. It lingers in the spaces they left behind, in the echoes of laughter, in the memories that refuse to fade.

David’s story is not just in how he left, but in how he lived. In his kindness, in the love he gave, in the people who still carry his name in their hearts.