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Amma showed me Kannadasan's verses on her cracked phone screen, fingers trembling with pride. The old Tamil Brahmi script danced before my eyes, each character a whispered ancestor. She'd earned cash through a social network, sharing our family's forgotten songs with strangers who became friends. "They paid me," she said, voice breaking, "for words I thought worthless." That evening, our neighborhood gathered to listen. Children leaned close as Amma recited centuries-old wisdom, now amplified beyond imagination. We weren't just preserving heritage; we were breathing life into it together, one shared moment at a time.