The apiary—those rickety hives Grandpa had fussed over—seemed useless. I pictured instead the school dance, my best friend’s party, the new phone I’d begged for. But Aunt Daphne, who’d stepped in after Grandma’s passing, reminded me day after day: “Your grandfather believed in you. The bees aren’t going to tend themselves.” When I shrugged off her pleas, she grounded me, making the dusty hives the heart of my punishment—and, unknowingly, the beginning of my awakening.

That first morning at the apiary, clad in thick gloves and veiled hood, I lifted a hive’s lid with dread. Inside, writhing with purpose, were the bees he’d nurtured. A sting