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My grandmother clutched the photograph of Keeladi's ancient pottery, eyes glistening. "Our ancestors wrote their stories in clay," she whispered, tracing the Tamil script with weathered fingers. When the excavation news spread online, our community erupted with pride. Some monetized the moment, sharing artifacts for likes and rupees. But Amma sat quietly, teaching me to read those two-thousand-year-old letters. "Money fades," she said. "This connection—it's eternal." I finally understood. Real wealth wasn't viral moments or digital currency. It was this: her voice, those symbols, our unbroken thread stretching back through time, linking us to everyone who came before.