Liyam drifts onto the tongue like a sea-kissed breeze—LEE-yum—blending the Celtic strength of Liam with a Hebrew whisper that can be read as “my sea” (li + yam), so that in one small word the steadfast “resolute protector” of old Europe and the rolling waters of the Levant clasp hands. He stands, in the storyteller’s eye, on an Italian quay at golden dusk, laughter curling around espresso steam, a little voyager whose name carries both shield and shoreline. Though only a handful of American parents—six in 2022—have netted this shimmering syllable from the tide of possibilities, its rarity only sharpens the sparkle, like a lone star over the Amalfi horizon. Liyam is at once familiar and fresh: a modern spelling that nods to tradition, a short melodic promise that, when called across a playground or a piazza, feels as warm as sun-warmed stone and as free as salt-laced wind.