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Amma showed me Kannadasan's verses today, her weathered fingers tracing Tamil Brahmi script on yellowed paper. The poet's words danced between love and longing, timeless as monsoon rains. I struggled with the ancient characters until she laughed, pulling me close. That evening, I joined PaybookClub's virtual gathering. Strangers became friends as we discussed heritage and heartbreak. Someone shared their grandmother's manuscript. Another recited Kannadasan from memory. In that warm circle of screens and souls, I understood something precious: stories bind us across generations, languages, and distance. We're all keepers of light.