“Leo, the trash is overflowing,” she’d say.

“Slowly,” Grandpa said. “One candle. Then the next. But you don’t get a new match until the previous candle is burning steady and true.”

He pointed to the first attempt—the mess of wax, the fallen candle. “That’s a boy reacting.”

Leo was twelve and had the fastest hands in his grade. He could snatch a cookie from the jar without a creak, flick a paper football across the cafeteria before the teacher turned around, and unlace his sneakers under the desk without looking. His hands, he believed, were born for motion, not stillness.