Noah was born during a thunderstorm, where the waves whispered secrets and the sky poured silver.
He grew up in a house built out of love, where sunlight spilled like honey across the floors and stories lived in old photo albums and sword-shaped shadows on the wall.
Noah loved books, reading about kings, heroes, and broken men who still chose to love. He saw himself in them, soft-hearted, steady, and not afraid to feel
His presence filled a room like a warm light. He noticed when someone’s hands trembled. He remembered the dates people forgot. He picked wildflowers and tucked them into his own back pocket.
Sometimes, he would wander to the water with a camera. He never took selfies, only photos of hands reaching for waves, of footprints in sand, of eyes that said more than mouths ever could.
People often said, “He’s old for his age,” but Noah just smiled. He wasn’t trying to be older. He was just trying to feel everything fully. And he did.
Someone who stood still in storms, not to fight them - but to understand them. He had his father’s strength and his own gentleness. He had his mother’s heart and a soul made of stories.
He didn’t need to lead armies or win wars. He simply was. His father in his blood, and his mother in his heart.
And in the pictures he took, in the words he wrote, in the way he looked at the world with wonder still glowing in his eyes - he was legendary.
