In the heart of the royal castle, where the walls smelled of warm cinnamon and old books, lived a kind boy named Mateo. The castle was a grand place, with towers that tickled the clouds and floors that creaked like a sleepy mouse. Every morning, the scent of freshly baked bread wafted through the halls, and the sound of clinking teacups filled the air like tiny bells dancing.

Mateo loved exploring. His fingers traced the bumpy stones of the castle walls, and his toes wiggled in the plush carpets that felt like walking on a cloud. But there was one thing Mateo found tricky: waiting. Oh, how he *hated* waiting! When the royal chef, Chef Puddlefoot, promised him a tower of marshmallows if he could wait just ten minutes without touching them, Mateo’s eyes sparkled like stars. "Easy-peasy!" he said, licking his lips.

Chef Puddlefoot stacked the marshmallows high—one, two, three, *plop!*—until they wobbled like a jelly tower. "Remember," he said, "no touching until the big clock goes *DONG!*" Mateo nodded, but his fingers twitched like little worms. The marshmallows smelled sweet, like cotton candy melting in the sun. *Tick-tock, tick-tock* went the clock, its hands crawling slower than a snail in molasses.

Mateo tried to distract himself. He hummed a tune, but the marshmallows hummed back, *"Eat me! Eat me!"* He bounced on his toes, but the floor creaked, *CRACK-CRACK*, like it was laughing at him. He even tried counting the cracks in the ceiling, but his eyes kept sneaking back to the marshmallow tower. *Just one little touch*, he thought. *No one will know!*

His hand crept forward—*whoosh!*—like a sneaky cat. *Tap!* His finger brushed the bottom marshmallow. *Wobble-wobble!* The tower teetered, then—*SPLAT!*—it collapsed into a gooey heap. Mateo gasped. His shoulders slumped like a deflated balloon, and his cheeks burned hotter than a dragon’s sneeze. Chef Puddlefoot sighed, shaking his head. "Oh, Mateo. Waiting is like growing a flower. You can’t pull on the petals to make it bloom faster!"

Mateo’s tummy rumbled, but not from hunger. He felt a little squishy inside, like a marshmallow left too long in the sun. That night, as he lay in bed, the castle walls whispered secrets. The wind outside howled, *whooo-ooo*, like it was telling a joke. Mateo giggled, then sighed. Maybe waiting wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was like a game—how long could he last?

The next morning, Chef Puddlefoot set up another marshmallow tower. This time, Mateo sat on his hands. He sang silly songs, danced like a wobbly jelly, and even told himself a story about a dragon who waited *forever* for his toast. *Tick-tock, tick-tock* went the clock. His toes tapped. His nose twitched. But he didn’t touch!

Then—*DONG!*—the clock chimed. Mateo’s heart leaped like a frog on a trampoline. "I did it!" he cheered. Chef Puddlefoot clapped, and the marshmallows wobbled in celebration. Mateo took a big, fluffy bite. *Mmm!* It tasted sweeter than honey, softer than a kitten’s purr. Waiting had made it *perfect*.

From that day on, Mateo practiced waiting for all sorts of things: his turn on the royal slide, the cookies to cool, even the castle’s grumpy old owl to finish his nap. And you know what? The more he waited, the more magical things became. Because sometimes, the best things in life—like marshmallow towers—are worth the *tick-tock*.