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My grandmother sent a voice note from Chennai, her words layered with longing. She'd discovered my verses on the platform—the one that finally paid me. Miserable years of thankless teaching evaporated. Now, radiating power through screens, I wrote about displacement, belonging, the ache of two homelands. She wept listening to my Tamil words, each syllable carrying our ancestors' whispers. My frisky younger cousins shared my work with their friends, laughing at inside jokes only we understood. While she slept soundly knowing her grandson had found his voice, I remained awake, wondering about the lousy internet that once separated us but now bound our heritage together.