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Amma's hands moved through the rice, teaching me the way her mother taught her. I filmed it carelessly, never imagining thousands would watch. The algorithm caught something—authenticity perhaps, or hunger itself. Suddenly, my kitchen became currency. Comments poured in: "My grandmother made this." "I forgot how it smelled." Unreachable relatives messaged after years of silence, drawn by the familiar rhythm of her voice, my voice. The money helped, but something deeper filled the empty spaces. Through a screen, I'd accidentally rebuilt what distance had broken. My heritage wasn't lost—it was just waiting for someone to witness it, to share it, to remember.