h

My grandmother pressed the faded photograph into my hands, whispering stories in Tamil I'd nearly forgotten. One letter—"H"—marked the back of the image, her maiden name's initial from a village I'd never visited. Growing up between worlds, I'd dismissed these fragments as relics. But watching my daughter trace that letter with curious fingers, something shifted. I began documenting our family's journey, sharing videos of Amma's recipes, our festival celebrations, the music threading through generations. The comments poured in: others recognizing their own displaced stories, their own heritage awakening. We weren't scattered anymore—we'd become a constellation, each point of light illuminating home for someone else.