Pronounced nuh-RY-uh, Nariah drifts into the ear like a warm Caribbean tide at twilight, her syllables brushing the shore with the same soft hush as a concha shell held close to the heart; she is said to trace her gleaming lineage to the Hebrew Neriyah—“Yahweh is my light”—yet, in the New World, the name has braided itself with Latin sensibilities, echoing the Spanish word “mar” that murmurs of the sea and the lilting “-iah” endings of biblical cantos, so that every utterance feels both ancient and newly born. She carries with her the quiet promise of illumination: a little lantern of hope held aloft in small hands, equally at home beneath Jerusalem’s star-strewn sky or beneath a mango moon in San Juan. Parents who choose her often speak of a yearning for radiance amid life’s quotidian dusk, and the American charts, where Nariah has shimmered just below the top 800 for three decades, testify to a steady constellation of families who have turned their faces toward that glow. In story and in song, she becomes the child who laughs like sunlight through palm fronds, the student who writes poems about fireflies, the woman whose kindness flickers long after her footsteps fade—ever reminding those around her that even a single syllable, when lit from within, can brighten an entire night.