Cayson—spoken KAY-suhn, as breezy and buoyant as a gull riding the Tyrrhenian wind—began life as a bright-eyed twist on the old Gaelic-Scottish surname Carson, “son of the marsh-dwellers,” yet the slip of a y in his middle turns that ancestral reed bed into a modern playground where skateboard wheels skim and dreams gather speed. He carries the brio of an Italian piazza at dusk: warm terracotta light, violin strings drifting from a trattoria doorway, chatter rising like bubbles in a glass of prosecco. Still, beneath the sparkle lies sturdy peat-rich earth; Cayson suggests steadfast friendship, a boy who will shoulder a pack and hike the Dolomites of life for those he loves. In the United States his star has inched upward every year since the late ’90s, never too common, always just rare enough to feel like a secret path through olive groves—a familiar sound with an adventurous spirit. Light on formality, rich in heart, Cayson is both lullaby and trumpet call, equally fit for whispered bedtime stories and bright marquee lights.