Since Nico Antic stopped coming home, the kitchen has been strangely silent.
His mother still cooks enough food, even though she knows there will be a chair forever empty. His father doesn’t talk more than before—just much less. Nico’s siblings learn to walk softly, speak quietly, as if afraid of adding to the pain.

But there’s one thing in their house no one has dared to touch…

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The headline—“Since Nico Antic stopped coming home, the kitchen has been strangely silent.”—paints a vivid portrait of a household frozen in the aftermath of unimaginable loss. In the days and weeks since 12-year-old Nico Antic passed away on January 24, 2026, from injuries sustained in a shark attack in Sydney Harbour, his family’s home has become a place of hushed routines and unspoken absences. His mother, Lorena Antic, continues to prepare meals as she always did, setting out portions out of habit even though one chair at the table remains permanently empty. His father, Juan, speaks even less than before—words now feel too heavy, too final. Nico’s siblings move through the house with deliberate quiet, learning to tread softly, to lower their voices, as if any sudden noise might shatter the fragile equilibrium holding the family together.

But there is one thing in their home that no one has dared to touch: Nico’s soccer boots, still sitting by the back door exactly where he left them the morning of January 18, caked with dried mud from his last training session or casual kick-around with friends. The laces remain loosely tied, the cleats slightly scuffed from countless games with Goal Soccer Academy in Rose Bay. No one has moved them, cleaned them, or put them away. They stand as a silent sentinel—a small, ordinary object that has become monumental in its refusal to be altered.

The Weight of Everyday Absence

Grief in the Antic household manifests in these quiet domestic details. The kitchen, once filled with the sounds of Nico bounding in after school or practice—dropping his bag, raiding the fridge, chattering about his day—now echoes with nothing but the hum of the refrigerator and the soft clink of utensils. Lorena still cooks enough for everyone, including the portion that would have been his. She sets his place instinctively, then stares at the empty chair, the food untouched. It’s a ritual of love and denial, a way to keep him present even as reality insists otherwise.

Juan, who was always the quieter parent, has retreated further into silence. Conversations are brief, functional. The family speaks in murmurs, as if volume might disturb the delicate balance. Nico’s siblings—though no public details name them or specify their ages—have adapted by becoming almost invisible in their movements: closing doors gently, avoiding loud laughter, suppressing arguments. They understand, perhaps instinctively, that the house is holding its breath.

These behaviors are common in families navigating sudden child loss: the amplification of silence, the hyper-awareness of absence, the unspoken pact to protect one another from further pain. The kitchen, the heart of the home, bears the brunt because it was Nico’s domain—where he ate, joked, argued over desserts, planned adventures.

The Untouched Boots: A Symbol Frozen in Time

The soccer boots represent more than footwear. Nico was a passionate player, representing his club in tournaments like the Sydney International Cup. He was also a Nipper (junior surf lifesaver) at North Bondi Surf Life Saving Club, earning “most improved” honors in the under-11 boys category in 2024. His “lion-heart spirit,” as the club described it, shone on the field and in the water. Those boots carried him through countless joyful hours—sprints down the pitch, goal celebrations, muddy post-game hugs.

Now they sit untouched, a tangible link to the boy who was “happy, friendly, and sporty… with the most kind and generous spirit,” as his parents wrote in their public statement. Moving them would feel like erasing the last physical trace of his daily life. Cleaning them would erase the evidence of his last normal day. So they remain: mud-crusted, laces askew, waiting for feet that will never return.

This detail—the refusal to disturb one small item—echoes countless stories of bereavement. Families often preserve a child’s room, clothing, or favorite objects as shrines, unable to bear the finality of change. For the Antics, the boots are that shrine: proof he was here, that he ran, laughed, lived fully.

Remembering Nico Amid the Silence

The family’s public words have been few and dignified. On January 24, Lorena and Juan stated: “We are heartbroken to share that our son, Nico has passed away. Nico was a happy, friendly, and sporty young boy with the most kind and generous spirit. He was always full of life and that’s how we’ll remember him.”

They thanked first responders, Sydney Children’s Hospital staff, and the community for support—including the GoFundMe that raised over $240,000 for expenses and care. Tributes poured in from across Sydney: from North Bondi Surf Life Saving Club, Goal Soccer Academy, friends, and even strangers touched by the story.

Nico’s death was the first in a cluster of shark encounters in New South Wales that week, involving bull sharks drawn closer by runoff and warmer waters. But for his family, statistics offer no comfort. The pain is personal: the empty chair, the quiet footsteps, the boots by the door.

In time, perhaps someone will gently move them—to a shelf, a box of memories, a place of honor. But not yet. For now, they stay where he left them, gathering dust in the silent kitchen, bearing witness to a life interrupted too soon.

The Antic home is quieter than it has ever been. Yet in that quiet, Nico’s spirit lingers—in the meals prepared with love, the careful steps of siblings, the untouched boots that still carry the shape of his feet. He may not come home, but the family holds space for him in every hushed corner.