In the heart of the Royal Castle, where the walls smelled of warm cinnamon and old books, lived a kind-hearted boy named Wyatt. The castle halls echoed with the clippity-clop of the royal chef’s wooden clogs and the squeak-squeak of mice playing hide-and-seek behind the tapestries. Wyatt loved to explore every nook, especially the grand library, where the rugs felt as fluffy as a cloud’s belly.

One morning, as the scent of freshly baked honey cakes drifted through the air, Wyatt found a pile of wooden blocks in the playroom. They were smooth as a pebble rolled by the river, and each one had a little symbol carved into its side—a star, a moon, or a tiny crown. Perfect! thought Wyatt. I’ll build the tallest tower ever!

He stacked the first block. Tap. The second. Tap-tap. The third wobbled like a jelly on a spoon. Wyatt giggled and steadied it with his finger. Easy-peasy! By the fifth block, his tongue stuck out in concentration, and his knees pressed into the cold stone floor, which sent a shiver up his spine like a spider’s tickle. The tower reached his chin. Almost there!

Then—DISASTER! Wyatt sneezed. ACHOO! The tower swayed like a tree in a storm. Wobble-wobble-wobble… CRASH! Blocks scattered everywhere, clattering like a herd of clumsy elephants. Wyatt’s cheeks turned as red as the castle’s velvet curtains. He sighed, his shoulders slumping like a deflated balloon.

Just then, the royal cat, Sir Pounce-a-Lot, trotted in. His fur was as soft as a feather duster, and he smelled faintly of tuna and mischief. With a flick of his tail, he knocked over Wyatt’s water cup. SPLASH! Wyatt gasped. Now my blocks are all wet! But then—he noticed something. The water had made the blocks stick together just a tiny bit. Hmm…

Wyatt dried the blocks with his sleeve (which smelled like grass and sunshine) and tried again. This time, he took his time. He placed each block gently, like he was tucking in a sleepy kitten. Tap… tap… tap… The tower grew taller. And taller. And—gasp!—it reached ten blocks high! Wyatt’s heart did a little dance in his chest. He held his breath as he added the final block. Click. It stayed. IT STAYED!

The castle bells chimed, ding-dong-ding!, as if they were cheering for him. Sir Pounce-a-Lot purred and rubbed against Wyatt’s leg, leaving a trail of fluff on his trousers. Wyatt grinned so wide his cheeks hurt. He’d done it—not by rushing, but by being as patient as a snail on a Sunday stroll.

That night, as Wyatt curled up in his bed, the scent of lavender from his pillow filling his nose, he dreamed of towers that reached the stars. And he knew, no matter how wobbly the world might get, patience would always help him build something wonderful.