Nhung—pronounced “noong,” a sound that rolls off the tongue as gently as velvet sliding across a silk-draped table—finds her roots in Vietnamese, where the word itself means “velvet” and evokes images of moonlit lotus ponds and the hush of dusk settling over rice terraces; yet, like a mischievous breeze slipping through a Florentine piazza, the name has wandered far beyond its homeland, fluttering into American nurseries each decade since the 1980s, never in crowds, always in cameo, as though she prefers a quiet corner in the census the way an espresso loves a small porcelain cup. She carries an aura of softness—the promise of comfort, elegance, and subtle strength—while also hinting at the resilient velvet on a young deer’s antlers, forever renewing. One can almost picture her strolling beneath Venetian arcades, laughter glinting like sunlight on the Grand Canal, offering a lighthearted wink that says, “Yes, I’m rare—but rarity is simply another word for memorable.” In every culture she visits, Nhung leaves a gentle warmth: the whisper of silk, the glow of late-summer fireflies, the first swirl of foam atop a cappuccino, inviting parents to wrap their daughter in a name that feels at once tender, worldly, and timeless.