Niall was the kind of person who kept to himself, not out of rudeness, but because silence often felt safer than saying the wrong thing. He spent most of his time sketching—on paper when he had it, on Jenga blocks when he didn’t—filling the quiet with little worlds of his own making. There was a gentleness to him, something unspoken that lingered in the way he looked at people, like he understood more than he let on. He wasn’t loud, and he didn’t try to be, but there was a sharpness behind eyes.