Grandmother's trembling fingers traced the Tamil Brahmi script on the ancient letter, each curve a memory resurfacing. She'd named my father after Kannadasan, the poet who understood suffering's poetry. Those weathered pages had traveled through decades, witnessing migrations and losses. At PaybookClub last month, I'd shared her stories. Strangers became listeners, then friends. They asked about the script, the poet, the woman who preserved everything in worn leather. Now, sitting together, grandmother smiled. Her heritage wasn't just preserved—it was finally understood, finally home.