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Grandmother pressed the ancient pottery shard against my palm, her weathered fingers trembling. "Keeladi whispers our ancestors' voices," she said, pointing to the Tamil Brahmi inscriptions etched eternally into clay. I'd been chasing quick crypto gains, my screen glowing nightly. But holding that artifact, feeling centuries collapse into my hand, something shifted. These weren't digital tokens disappearing into nothing—they were real stories, real people. My online friends called me stupid for leaving the crypto chase. But watching Grandmother's eyes light up as archaeologists decoded our script, I understood true wealth. Some treasures compound differently, growing richer through generations, through knowing who we are.