.

My grandmother clutched the envelope of cash, her weathered hands trembling. In Chennai's crowded streets, she'd finally sold our ancestral home, that heritage mansion where Kannadasan once recited poetry in our courtyard. The money glowed on her screen—notifications pinging endlessly as distant relatives emerged from nowhere, suddenly vigorous in their affection online. But nothing could replace the echoes of those verses, the morning jasmine, the stories embedded in those walls. She closed the app, holding tight to memories worth more than currency. Some inheritances, she whispered, were never meant for trading. Our neighborhood's bonds remained priceless.