Meera's fingers trembled as she held the photograph, taken decades ago on a Madras street corner. Her grandmother stood before the temple, silk saree gleaming in monsoon light. She had carried this memory across oceans, raising her daughter in distant lands, never forgetting the jasmine-scented mornings of her childhood. Last month, Meera dared to return. She walked those same streets, found the temple unchanged, felt the familiar rhythm of Tamil prayers wash over her soul. Her daughter discovered cousins she never knew, laughing in a language flowing through her blood. Some wealth cannot be measured. Some homecomings heal generations.