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Grandmother clutched the pottery shard from Keeladi, eyes glistening. "Our ancestors touched this," she whispered. Her granddaughter scrolled through social media, ready to monetize the discovery, but paused at the old woman's trembling hands. Kannadasan's poems suddenly made sense—about roots running deeper than profits. The girl deleted the post. Instead, they visited the excavation site together, connecting with villagers who'd guarded these stories for generations. No likes, no cash. Just belonging. The shard gleamed under sunlight, bridging past and present, reminding them that some treasures multiply only when shared freely within our community.