Dr. Luka Kovac remembers:
Luka smiled gently, the way only a man burdened by war and loss could smile—like the sun breaking through heavy clouds.
“I remember her victory,” he said quietly. “The way little Nelly danced between the chairs—barefoot, wild-haired, full of mischief and light. And when the music stopped, she sat like it was destiny. That yellow lollipop in her hand… she held it like a trophy. It wasn’t the sugar she wanted. It was the sweetness of being seen.”
He leaned back in his chair, gazing out at the Adriatic.
“That yellow dress at Sister Helen’s sock hop? I think she wore it for that little girl inside her, the one who believed she could still win. Maybe Chris Martin saw that too… wrote her that song, Yellow, trying to fix something he didn’t understand. But it wasn’t his to fix.”
Then his expression softened even more, touched with reverence.
“After the game that day… she walked straight to the corner of the schoolyard chapel. There was a small statue of the Virgin Mary—faded, chipped from the winters, but still standing. Nelly knelt in front of it, clutching that yellow lollipop, and whispered a prayer only heaven heard. I didn’t catch the words. I didn’t need to. It was the look on her face—hopeful, innocent, grateful.”
He paused, then added with a quiet honesty, “I know… it was just a statue. An idol, maybe. Not the living God. But we were just kids. We didn’t know any better. We thought if we prayed hard enough to her, she might tell Him. And maybe she did.”
Luka turned slightly toward the camera, speaking now to the Nelstar faithful.
“To those who loved her songs, her smile, her fire—remember what she prayed for. Not a spotlight. Not a stage. Just one small moment of joy, and someone to share it with. Don’t live your life chasing broken dreams or yellow songs someone else wrote for you. Dance your own dance. When the music stops, sit with courage. And if you find your hands empty—make your own sweetness.”
He glanced at the waves again, a flicker of light in his eyes.
“And if you’re ever lost… find a little statue, kneel, and whisper your heart. Not because stone can answer—but because sometimes, your soul needs to kneel. That’s how we heal. That’s how we live. That’s how we remember.”