As the weekend drew to a close, Grandpa Jack handed each of his grandchildren a small, intricately carved wooden box.
That particular year, a shy boy named Aaron was chosen. He was often lost in his own world of sketches and daydreams, rarely speaking unless prompted. When Puretaboo placed the flame in his trembling hands, the boy’s eyes widened, and a sudden warmth spread through the crowd. The old man whispered, “Remember, Aaron, stories are not just words; they are bridges. Build them wisely.” puretaboo grandpa