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My grandmother counted fifty-seven steps from her Chennai home to the temple. Each morning, she'd walk them barefoot, her silk saree trailing stories. Years later, an ocean away, I found myself retracing those steps through old photographs, my children asking about home they'd never seen. When I finally walked that path myself, my feet remembered what my heart had forgotten. The neighborhood recognized our family name carved in stone. Strangers became relatives; relatives became mirrors of myself. That simple number, fifty-seven, became everything. It was distance and homecoming wrapped in devotion, proof that some journeys never truly end, only transform across generations and continents, anchoring us forever.