There are some voices that don’t fade, even after they fall silent. Nicholas had one of those voices. A voice that could stop you in your tracks, a voice that carried emotion like waves, rising and crashing into something beautiful. He could sing, play piano and guitar with an effortless grace, as if music had always lived inside him, waiting to be heard. And when he sang, you felt it. It was a piece of him, a truth only music could hold.

His intelligence was sharp, his mind quick—just like his father’s, the one he lost too soon. And maybe that’s why he carried pieces of his dad forward in the way he thought, the way he figured things out faster than most. He had a talent for patterns, for puzzles, for putting things together when others saw only chaos. A Rubik’s Cube in his hands was solved in seconds. His friends and family never tired of watching, never stopped being amazed by how easily he just knew.

But the most remarkable thing about Nicholas was not his mind, nor his voice, nor even his talent—it was his heart. He was generous in a way that didn’t ask for recognition. If a stranger needed help, he gave it. If a friend was struggling, he showed up. He had a kindness that was quiet but steady, the kind that left an impact long after he was gone.

If his family had one more moment, one more chance, they wouldn’t waste it on words that could never be enough. They would pull him into a hug, hold him as tight as possible, and hope he could feel everything they never got to say.

"I love you. I love you. I love you."

If time had allowed, he would have gone camping, sitting under the stars, letting the quiet wrap around him like a familiar song. But now, all his family can do is look up at the night sky and wonder if he is still singing, if his voice is now carried by the wind, if he knows just how deeply he is missed.

Nicholas, your voice still echoes. Your kindness still lingers. And your absence will never, ever be small.