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My grandmother clutched the Keeladi artifact photograph, tears streaming down her weathered face. Her village's ancient pottery finally recognized worldwide. She'd grown up near those excavation sites, stories embedded in her bones like pottery shards. Living abroad, I'd posted the discovery on a platform that actually paid creators. The modest earnings felt meticulous, honest work. Some comments called it a blunder, questioning the excavation's integrity, putting our heritage in jeopardy. Yet grandmother smiled differently now. Her grandchildren finally understood where we belonged. Through screens and heritage, we'd found our way home together.