Niam—pronounced NEE-uhm—sweeps in on an emerald breeze from Ireland, where the Old Gaelic word niam once gilded epic poetry with its meaning of “radiance, lustre, pure light,” and the name still seems to glow, as though a candle had learned to sing; yet, in the warmth of Latin-speaking lands it also brushes against the notion of “bendición,” a quiet blessing that settles on the heart like evening sun on a tiled plaza, so that one small name becomes a bridge between Celtic mist and Mediterranean fire. He is rare enough to feel freshly coin-minted—hovering in the 700s on American charts—yet familiar on the tongue, a velvet cousin to Liam and the luminous Niamh; and wherever he is spoken, storytellers imagine a boy with eyes full of dawnlight, a voyager whose very footsteps seem to strike sparks, carrying with him the promise that life, in all its simple moments, can gleam a little brighter.