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At fifty-six, Meera finally returned to Srirangam after decades abroad. Three hundred fifty-six days—she'd counted every one while working in the diaspora, saving, remembering. Her grandchildren, born in foreign cities, walked beside her through the ancient temple's corridors, their eyes widening at the intricate gopurams. That evening, rested in her childhood home, she felt truly spellbounded. The familiar scent of jasmine, the familiar rhythms of prayer—these weren't just memories anymore. When her granddaughter spontaneously took her hand during aarti, Meera understood. Heritage wasn't preserved in photographs or stories alone. It lived through presence, through touch, through choosing to come home. Their connection amplified generations worth of belonging.